#ended up lining it and currently coloring it too...

[nemisisnemi]

Leona Kingscholar? more like Leona STINKscholar/j

close ups underneath + click on the drawings for higher quality!

pls dont decimate my quality tumblr pls dont decimate my quality tumblr pls dont decimate my quality tumblr-

[voidoffline]

I’m gonna start needing to put more disclaimers in my art arnt I?

[hoe4hotchner]

Can you write a story where the reader, a BAU member, is on maternity leave after she and Aaron just had a baby? One day, she goes to the office to bring their daughter to visit Aaron, only to find him in the bullpen with the agent who replaced her while she’s been on leave. The replacement has a crush on Aaron and doesn’t know that he’s married to the reader. The replacement becomes jealous when she sees how much attention Aaron is giving their daughter and confronts the reader, but Aaron gets angry and ends up firing her."

Family first | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x fem!reader | WC: 1.1k | CW: Fluff, mom!reader, they have a daugther, bitch of a replacement coworker who doesn't know her place.

As you stepped into the all too familiar bullpen you were met with the usual sound of phones ringing, keyboards clicking, and the occasional laughter bubbling up from conversations between team members. You hadn’t stepped foot in the office in months — your maternity leave had been an endless storm of sleepless nights, diaper changes, and indescribable moments of joy. Now, cradling your six-month-old daughter in your arms, you stood at the threshold of the office, taking it all in — realizing how little you'd missed working, as long as you got to spend your time with your daughter.

“Ready to surprise Daddy?” you cooed to your baby, brushing a soft kiss against her fluffy head. She giggled in response, her little hand grasping at your necklace — the one Aaron had gotten you with a charm of your daughter's initial. Her chubby fingers wrapped around the charm, and you couldn’t help but smile at her curiosity.

Heads turned as you had entered, and a wave of warmth spread through you as familiar voices from your friends greeted you.

“Y/N!” Garcia’s exclamation came first as she flew across the bullpen, pulling away from her conversation with Morgan, her colorful dress trailing behind her. “Oh my gosh, let me see that precious little angel!”

You laughed, carefully handing over your daughter as Garcia immediately began cooing at her. Emily, Morgan, and JJ soon gathered around, their faces lighting up at the sight of the baby.

“Look at those cheeks,” Morgan said, his voice soft as he tickled her tiny hand. “Hotch better have her signed up for karate classes already. Gotta keep the boys away.”

“Or girls,” Emily added. “She’s going to be a heartbreaker either way.”

You beamed at their affection, the team’s love for your little family filling your heart. “Where is Aaron?” you asked, glancing toward his office. The blinds were drawn, but you knew he wasn’t inside.

JJ nodded toward the conference room. “He’s in there, showing something to Agent Morrison.”

Your smile faltered slightly at the mention of Morrison, the agent who had been brought in temporarily to cover your leave. You hadn’t met her yet, but you’d heard through the grapevine that she was ambitious, skilled, and confident — maybe a little too confident.

You spotted Aaron through the windows, his back turned as he reviewed what you assumed were some case files with Morrison. He looked relaxed yet tired, his tie slightly loosened, though his usual air of authority remained in place. Morrison stood close to him — a little too close — her laughter ringing out at something he said.

Your lips pressed into a thin line, but you pushed the feeling aside. Aaron was your husband, your partner, and the father of the baby currently making grabby hands at Morgan’s face. You had no reason to feel insecure.

Morgan handed your daughter back to you as you went to greet your husband.

And still, as you approached, you couldn’t help but notice the way Morrison’s body language leaned toward him, her hand brushing his forearm as she laughed again. Aaron didn’t seem to notice — or if he did, he wasn’t encouraging it.

When you reached the conference room, Aaron glanced up, and the moment his eyes met yours, his entire demeanor softened.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice filled with warmth and surprise. His gaze immediately dropped to the baby in your arms, and he stood quickly, coming around the desk to envelop you both in a hug.

“You should’ve told me you were coming,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple before gently brushing a finger across your daughter’s cheek. She squealed in delight, reaching out for him, and he took her into his arms with ease.

“It wouldn’t have been a surprise if I told you,” you replied, grinning as you watched him cradle her. “I figured you could use a break.”

Aaron’s smile widened, and he kissed the baby’s forehead before turning back to you. “I always have time for my girls.”

Morrison’s voice cut into the moment, a hint of confusion lacing her words. “Wait, your girls?”

You turned to her, offering a polite smile. “Hi, I’m Y/N. Aaron’s wife.”

Her eyes widened, darting between you, Aaron, and the baby. “Wife?” she repeated, her tone almost incredulous.

Aaron’s arm settled protectively around your waist as he nodded. “Yes, my wife. Y/N used to work here before going on maternity leave.”

Morrison’s expression shifted, her initial surprise giving way to something more guarded. “Oh. I… I didn’t realize.”

“Well, now you do,” Aaron said firmly, his tone polite but edged with finality, hoping that your visit would make Morrison drop her antics.

The tension in Morrison’s posture was clear as day, but she pasted on a smile. “She’s adorable,” she said, nodding toward the baby. “You’re very lucky.”

Aaron’s grip on you tightened slightly. “I know I am.”

The interaction seemed to conclude there, and Morrison excused herself, claiming she had paperwork to finish. But as the day went on, it became clear that the encounter had unsettled her. You noticed her watching you from across the room, her eyes narrowing whenever Aaron’s attention lingered on you or the baby.

Finally, as you were gathering your things to leave, Morrison approached you near the elevator. Her smile was tight, her tone clipped.

“Can I talk to you for a moment?” she asked, glancing around to ensure no one else was within earshot.

You raised an eyebrow but nodded. “Sure. What’s on your mind?”

Her polite facade dropped almost instantly. “You don’t have to flaunt your relationship in front of everyone,” she said sharply. “It’s unprofessional.”

Your jaw tightened, but you kept your voice calm. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

She scoffed. “You know exactly what I mean. Walking in here with your baby like you own the place, acting like Hotch is your personal property… It’s distracting and completely inappropriate.”

You blinked, stunned by the audacity. Before you could respond, a familiar voice cut through the tension.

“Agent Morrison.”

Aaron’s tone was ice-cold, and you turned to see him standing a few feet away, his expression thunderous. “A word, please. Now.”

Morrison’s face paled as she stammered, “I… I didn’t mean…”

“My office. Now.”

You watched as Aaron led her away, his posture stiff with fury. The bullpen had fallen silent, and you could feel the eyes of your colleagues on you, but you held your head high, refusing to let Morrison’s pettiness rattle you.

Minutes later, Aaron returned, his expression softer but still serious. He placed a hand on your arm, guiding you toward the elevator. “Let’s go home,” he said quietly.

As the elevator doors closed, you glanced up at him. “What happened?”

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Morrison won’t be returning. Her behavior was unacceptable, and I made it clear that we won’t tolerate that kind of attitude here.”

You nodded, your heart swelling with gratitude and love for the man beside you. “Thank you.”

Aaron’s eyes softened as he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead. “No one disrespects my family,” he said firmly. “No one.”

[starrdream]

Trouble

Anakin Skywalker x f!reader sumary: You catch the eye of a handsome Jedi at your rather inappropriate job includes: SMUT , piv, slight praise, overstimulation(kinda), lmk if i missed something

It was no secret that The Republic was struggling. The pay for your old job was nothing short of awful and borderline embarrassing considering the media kept saying the economy was thriving.

You weren't exactly surprised-you were in the middle of a war after all. That's how you ended up where you currently are-at a strip club.

Was it your dream job? No, definitely not, but the money was there and that was your main concern. And to say it wasn't fun would be a lie, considering you only had to look pretty and flirt with men.

It was like clubbing and getting payed for it. And it came with perks-you could come in whenever you'd like and get free drinks. Definitely a win-win situation.

Tonight was no different. The lights were a strong, purple color, the club was full and loud. You were contemplating on leaving as you took another sip of your drink.

So I've already made about, what? 400 credits? That should be plenty fo-

Your calculations were interrupted by a young and very handsome man walking in. Judging by his looks-the dark robes and tall boots-he was a Jedi.

Suddenly, leaving without at least saying hi seemed like the worst idea ever. You finished your drink and quickly adjusted your hair and bra before walking over to where he was.

He stood at the bar, seemingly alone and lost in thought as he sipped on some ridiculously blue beverage.

Luckily for you, he noticed you walking up to him and shot you a smug grin before you ever reached him.

"Why hello" You smile when you're close enough to place your hand on his shoulder. "You look lost." You tease.

"I'm doing just fine sweetheart." He chuckled, leaning into your touch. "You got a name?"

"Well you could call me trouble." You joked.

Thank gods for your charm and wit because never in your life would you be getting dicked down this good without it. It took you less than 15 minutes of shamelessly flirting with the boy, whose name you learned was Anakin, to get him to be all over you.

You didn't even ask, he offered, no-begged you to sleep with him with those subtle innuendos. Not to mention he payed way more than intended, what a gentleman.

This man was the definition of perfect. Everything about him seemed to be sculpted by gods themselves-the curve of his muscles, the line of his jaw, those beautiful eyes burning into your ass as he pounded into you from behind.

Tears were flowing freely down your face-not from pain, not from discomfort but the sheer pleasure and high you were feeling. If there was a perfect size for one's dick, it'd be whatever Anakin walked around with.

It was just the right thickness, not painful but thick enough for you to feel the familiar burn of being stretched out. It was heavy to hold too, your wrist was sore from stroking him earlier. The length? You didn't even care. More along the lines of, you couldn't-because his tip was pushing against your cervix with every thrusts, bruising it and making your head spin to the point where you couldn't think straight.

It wasn't all for nothing-he knew how to use both his cock and fingers. You could probably get off on them alone for the rest of your life and never complain. It's like he knew where to rub your spots for years, despite only knowing you for an hour.

None of your exes could've done this. Hell, half of them couldn't get you to cum. This was on a completely different level.

As if he couldn't get any better, he was vocal too. Not something extravagant but it was there and you could tell he wasn't holding back. The whimpers, soft grunts and puffs made you tighten and flutter around him.

This was borderline dehumanizing-the sounds, the way it felt, the way it happened.. It had you rethinking if this maybe was your dream job.

"That's it baby, come on.." He encouraged. "You got it, give me one more."

This wasn't the first round of the night neither. He ate you out mercilessly, then fingered you, splitting you in half while claiming he was "prepping you for his cock"

"Nghh, Anakin" You moaned, burying your face further into the silky pillow, smearing your tears and what was left of your make-up into it.

"You're doing so good, c'mon.." He huffed, pace not faltering for even a second. One of his hands was on your hip, repeatedly fucking you back onto him. The other hand was all over your ass, squeezing and groping your skin.

"Mmph..g-gonna cum.." You whine, biting down on your lip as the familiar warmth bubbles up in your lower tummy. Your pussy is squeezing him, serving as a constant reminder of your impending orgasm.

Anakin's breath hitches as he hears you whine, his hand tightening around your hip. "Fuck, yes." He huffed. "Let me hear you baby.."

With a desperate whimper, you convulse around him, unraveling before him for the 3rd time tonight. Anakin would't be Anakin if he did't fuck you through your orgasm.

He kept going at a slower, firmer pace. He wanted to prolong your pleasure for as long as possible. "Fuckk, just like that pretty girl." He hummed, his own orgasm approaching fast.

Withing seconds he was filling you up, his breathing labored and head thrown back. He slowly pulled out after a few shallow thrusts, still holding your hip as he caught his breath.

"Damn.." He let go of you and plopped down on the bed next to you. Your hips were twitching, your body clearly still sensitive from the intense love making just seconds prior.

"You did so good f'me." Anakin mumbled as he sat up. You sat up too, looking up at him as he got dressed.

"I'd stay for cuddles but I have training first thing tomorrow morning." Anakin joked, zipping his trousers up.

You chuckled, shaking your head. "Well good luck, Jedi Knight."

"Master." Anakin corrected you, shooting a playful glare your way.

"Master." You correct yourself as you stand up.

"I hope we could continue our..business in the future." Anakin said as he put on his robes, watching you slip back into your lingerie. "I plan on coming back."

"I'd say we could, it was quite the pleasure doing business with you." You teased as the two of you walked out of the room and back into the club.

"Have a good night." He smiled softly-a genuine, warm smile before kissing your cheek.

You watched him leave, staring at his broad shoulders and confident step, hoping, praying that he would return to the club. To you.

A/N:I'm genuinely begging you guys to request something i have no ideas but I've been wanting to write lately. Also I changed my whole color theme lol

[spearofheaven]

⋆˚࿔ BODY PAINT — tattoo artist! geto suguru

SUM. your birthday plans had been just to get a tattoo. so how’d you end up getting eaten out too?

CONTAINS. 5.8k words. 18+ content, MDNI. non canon compliant/alternate universe. x fem! reader. pierced/tatted geto. cunnilingus. hair pulling (m receiving). fingering. unprotected p in v. doggy. pet names (pretty girl, cutie, etc.). finger sucking. spanking (once). creampie. kinda public sex (?)

Portraits and portraits of art pieces covering the walls welcomed you as you stepped inside, the jingle of the bell perched on the front announcing your entrance.

From dragons to variations of skulls—some with roses, lightning, and a couple of the grim reaper. You could easily lose yourself looking at all the different works, staring at how all the different lines came together and how the colors melded into one another.

“What're you looking for today?" A low baritone voice interrupted your brief exploration of the parlor. You turned to see a man standing at the counter with pigtails, a black line going across his nose and a couple piercings scattered across his pale face. How was it that you'd missed him upon walking inside?

"I was thinking about getting a tattoo, do you guys happen to accept walk-ins?" You responded, coming up to the counter where the man was standing. Choso, from what his name tag read. "We do, our current tattoo artist's busy though. You mind waiting about.. twenty minutes?"

You supposed it wasn't too bad after showing up without an appointment so you just simply nodded, going over to take a seat in the lobby. There was only one other person sitting on the end of the black sofa, their attention purely on the show playing on the TV mounted on the wall. You went from playing with your fingers to looking over at the TV, attempting to do anything that would make these twenty minutes pass by.

"Hey, go ahead and fill this out. And let me see your ID," Choso came back with a sheet of paper, a consent form. You fished for your ID in the back pocket of your jeans before handing it over to him, starting out with the task of filling out the paper. Signing your initials where it asked you to, reading through the different medical conditions that the paper explicitly listed out.

Your foot bounced against the floor as you waited, sudden nerves starting to hit you all at once now that you were in here. You knew that you wanted a tattoo, you'd been looking forward towards getting it for a few months now. But the little nagging voice inside your head told you that you could barely tolerate a needle at the doctor's office, and that was only for a couple seconds in of itself. How would you tolerate almost an hour of it?

A woman walked out from the back of the parlor, a tattoo of what seemed to be her birth year wrapped up in cling wrap. But your attention was quickly diverted to the man coming out after her—though, you supposed it would be hard not to stare at him. He was absolutely.. gorgeous. Long dark black hair that practically seemed to shine underneath the harsh lights tied back in a half bun, eyebrow and snake bites piercings accentuating the features of his face, and dark ink adorning his forearms.

"Here's the aftercare sheet, just shoot me a text or something if you have any concerns or anything," the man told the woman before she stepped away from the counter, handing her a white paper. The jingle of the bell echoed behind her as she left, leaving only the four of you alone in the lobby. Maybe this wasn't who Choso was talking about? You couldn't picture yourself or your panties for that matter lasting hours in a room with him.

Though, you probably should've expected as much with your luck.

"You got time for a walk-in?" Choso spoke up, nudging his head towards you when the other man was finished pocketing his tip. The man glanced over at you before pulling his phone out of his pocket, scrolling through it for a couple seconds. "Yeah, I got time," the other man walked over, standing in front of you before extending a hand out, "Geto Suguru." The coldness from the silver rings adorning each of his fingers was a stark difference from how warm his hand seemed to be. You gave him your name, stopping the handshake before it prolonged more than it should've.

More than it already did.

"So, what type of tattoo were you looking for?" Geto pushed his hands in his pockets, standing back to allow for you to get up from the spot. "I'm not too sure how to describe it, but I have a reference photo, if that's okay?" You told him, getting your phone out to go back to your camera roll. "Yeah, that's fine. Just airdrop to me when you find it."

The smell of antibacterial spray filled your nose as you stepped in, the room somehow been more decorated than the one outside. Geto had a couple of his designs up on the wall along with a couple band posters—Nirvana, Iron Maiden, and Led Zeppelin being some of the more prominent ones. A couple figures placed on a shelf, photos decorating them as well.  "Go on and take a seat. I'll be right there," he told you, opening up one of his drawers.

You took a seat on the leather chair in the middle of the chair, leaning against it before looking over to see what he was doing. "So.. how bad is it supposed to hurt?" You decided to ask, bracing yourself for the worst answer that he could give you. Despite the fact that you knew arm tattoos weren't all that painful from the two hours of research you'd done. "I can't give you a straightforward answer since not everyone has the same pain tolerance. But I'll walk you through the process before I start."

"The first thing I'm gonna do is shave your arm," Geto started off, opening up a pack of razors in front of you. Almost like he wanted to reassure you that everything he was using was new. "Around what area do you want the tattoo?" You opened your arm, gesturing around your inner forearm. Geto shaved the hair around the middle, wiping the residue away with a tissue.

"Next thing I'm gonna do is rub some alcohol on there and put on this cream," he brought up a small container into your line of vision, "It's not numbing cream before you get any ideas. Just so the stencil sticks." The rest of the process had gone relatively fast, the smell of rubbing alcohol filling up the space between the two of you. Geto placed the stencil on your arm, looking over at you to gauge your reaction. "Is this placement okay or do you want me to change it? Don't hesitate to ask, since y'know.. it is kinda permanent."

After a couple minutes of deliberation, Suguru placed the stencil where you’d decided. "So I'm gonna go ahead and put the needle on your arm just to go ahead and see if you can tolerate it," the machine whirred to life with the press of a button, "If you don't think you can tolerate it, just let me know and I'll wipe off the stencil." Geto turned around to face you, the buzzing of the tattoo gun getting louder the closer it got to your arm. All the nerves that you'd felt earlier seemed so silly now. While you felt the pressure of the needle , it was nothing like the excruciating pain you'd heard others have.

You cleared your throat before looking back over at him again, "Yeah, I can handle it." Suguru simply nodded, uncapping the bottle of black ink before almost filling up the small container in front of him. He arranged the small containers almost perfectly aligned to each other, the small work space that he'd set in front of him looking meticulous. Even the napkin that he'd grabbed was neatly folded up in three squares.

You'd almost wished that it was Choso doing the tattoo instead. Because, this, well this simply just wasn't fair. It wasn't fair how he managed to look so goddamn pretty just doing the most menial of tasks. The almost intoxicating scent of amber from his cologne filling up your senses with how close he was. You weren't sure if was better or worse for you that he didn't notice just how affected you were, of how much his presence alone was making you want to ditch the whole idea of getting a tattoo.

"You need something to help you relax? I got a couple stress balls hanging around or I could play something on the TV if you want," Suguru sat down on the rolling chair next to you, already grabbing the TV remote next to you. "Can you just play something, please?" Geto flickered through a couple of the channels available, settling on what was on the TV mounted outside. Not particularly your first choice, but enough to get your mind off the tattoo, at least.

And to get your mind off the very attractive man next to you trying to do his job.

"So, any meaning behind this tattoo or you just decided you wanted to get it?" Suguru broke the silence, though his focus was purely on tracing the piece of work in front of him. "Just saw it on Pinterest and I related to it a bit. Well, that and the design itself seemed pretty to me," you offered, staying still and keeping your attention on the TV. "I can follow the design that you showed me or I could try to improve on it. That is, if you have trust in my abilities," he spoke up after a couple seconds, purple eyes almost seeming to bore into you. 

"Can I see some of your abilities in place?" As hot as the man was—you didn't want to risk the tattoo coming out like complete dog shit. Suguru let out a short laugh, getting up from his spot before flipping through a couple drawers. He came back with a leather bound sketchbook, placing it on your lap. "I'm not much to show my works to others, but feel free to flip around if that helps you decide," you opened up the sketchbook with your available arm, immediately being greeted with a plethora of colors.

Not only were the pieces themselves better than what you could've expected, but they were so realistic. The shading of each drawing accentuating it perfectly against the lighting of the room, almost like he'd focused on that more than the actual drawing. You shut the sketchbook after flipping through a couple pages of different flowers, animals, and whatever else his brain could conjure up—handing it back to an expectant Geto. "It'd be wrong not to have faith in you after seeing that," you mused, watching him set the sketchbook aside before he went back to tracing.

"Don't worry, I'm still gonna follow the whole outline and shit. Just wanna make it look a little bit better is all," he responded, dipping the needle onto the container of black ink before bringing it back to your arm. You turned to look at much progress he'd done after the forty minute episode had ended only to realize he was just finishing up with the tip of the design. An incredibly detailed tip, though. "You okay? Don't want you passing out on me or anything."

"No, I'm fine," you reassured, going back to watching the TV in the comfortable silence that had built in the room. The only sounds emanating from the room were the soft whirring of the tattoo gun and the screaming of a couple characters on screen. "Have you watched this before?" You decided to break the silence after a while, turning to look over at him. "Something like that. Haven't watched much after the fourth season. Don't really have a buncha time available to watch TV."

The rest of the session had gone moderately well, the two of you sitting in silence for a majority of the time albeit for a couple questions that either he or you asked. He was, oddly enough, easy to talk to. "Okay, I'm gonna go in with a white paint. It's gonna hurt more than the other one so just tell me if it gets to be too much," he told you, pouring white paint into one of those small containers. And you felt the difference between the two, looking over to see him adding small marks with the white paint. Small marks that were starting to hurt like a motherfucker.

"Easy, you did so well for me throughout the session. This is nothing compared to that," Suguru spoke up, raising the tattoo gun to give you a small break. One of his gloved hands went to the furrow settled in your brow, gently easing it over before changing out the gloves for a fresh pair. You weren't even sure when you'd even started to grimace so badly. "Easy for you to say," you grumbled underneath your breath, certain that he wouldn't have caught it. But if the way his eyes shot up to look at you with a slightly amused smile was anything to go by, he did.

"You make it so hard to be nice to you," Geto muttered, turning the tattoo gun back on and going back to adding the fine white strokes. Maybe it'd been the fact that he'd offered that small bit of reassurance or maybe it was the fact that you could feel the session was starting to come to an end, but the pain didn't quite feel as bad as the first go. "Alright, we're all done," he spoke up after a couple minutes, turning the tattoo gun off and placing it on the table next to him.

"You mind if I get a couple pictures?" He waited for you to nod before setting up the ring light next to you, pulling his phone out. You extended your arm out to where he had the camera pointed, the tattoo on display. "Mm, hold on," Suguru muttered to himself, one of his hands wrapping around your wrist to adjust the angle. His touch almost seeming to linger more than necessary. Surely, all of this wasn't necessary just for a single photo, right? Especially when you weren't even the subject of said photo.

"You're gonna want to avoid shaving or waxing the area while it's still healing, some peeling's normal but just come to me if you have any concerns," he continued to explain the process of the aftercare involved, wrapping the tattoo up in cling wrap. "Try not to fuck it up," Geto led you over to the front desk, ringing you up for the price. "Wasn't it $120 and not $100?" You questioned, grabbing your wallet from your pocket.

"Consider it a birthday discount of sorts, pretty girl," the nickname spilled out so easily that you might've almost missed it. As if you needed more things to overthink about from this encounter. You handed him a hundred dollar bill with a ten dollar tip, giving him a short thanks before leaving the parlor. You looked over at the aftercare sheet that he'd given you at the counter, seeing his Instagram scrawled out in pretty decent penmanship. Well, at least you had plans for when you got back to your apartment tonight.

You knew that the tattoo was healing nicely—that you'd put the expensive ass ointment that Geto had recommended the designated three times a day. So why exactly did you find yourself standing outside the tattoo parlor once more? Out of concern for the new ink or just wanting to see Suguru once more? It couldn't be the latter, right? Not like you'd spent hours scrolling through his Instagram these last couple days to see what he'd thought about the tattoo. Definitely not the latter.

After all, he did say come to him if you had any concerns.

Surprisingly, it wasn't Choso to greet you at the counter this time around. Suguru was standing there, rearranging a couple pieces of body jewelry onto the glass display before he lifted his head to see who'd walked in the door. "You didn't let it get infected, did you? I spent hours on that thing," he didn't even bother with a greeting as Choso had done, already looking annoyed at the prospect. "Your concern for my health's endearing too."

"Yeah, yeah, what're you here for?"

"I just wanted to check up with you to see if the tattoo was healing nicely," the practiced lie slipped out of your tongue without any effort, plenty of rehearsals in your head allowing for it to slip out with any second thought.

"Alright, I have a couple minutes before my next appointment gets here," Suguru gestured for you to join him, opening the door for you. The space looked pretty much the same as the day you'd come in—which you should've expected, since it was only a week ago—albeit for a couple pencils scattered on top of a sketchbook in the middle of his desk. You took a seat on the leather chair, waiting for him to finish cleaning up his space.

Suguru grabbed a white box of gloves, grabbing a pair before placing them on. "So, what're you concerned about?" He questioned, long fingers running through your skin as he looked at how the tattoo was healing. "Well, it's been peeling a bit. I just wanted to know if that was normal or if I'm fucking something up somehow. I've been putting on the ointment you recommended three times a day."

Geto let out a small hum before leaning back on the rolling chair, folding his arms across his chest. His very muscular arms, the material of his black button down practically straining against them with the motion. "Your tattoo seems to healing well. Bit of peeling's normal as a new layer of skin comes in, nothing to worry about too much. Usually the area starts to get red if it's starting to get infected."

And maybe you should've taken that as a cue to leave. But you found yourself wanting to bask in whatever couple seconds that he would give you, unable to think about any other opportunities where you'd see him. Well, any other opportunities that didn't involve you spending upwards of a hundred dollars. You made no effort to move just yet, folding your hands over your lap. Trying to think of anything else to prolong this visit.

A couple moments of silence pass between the two of you before Suguru opens his mouth up to speak, only to get interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. "Yo, someone named Larue's here for their appointment," Choso called out from the other side, his foot tapping against the hardwood floor. Suguru gives you a glance before answering back, "Ask him to reschedule. Tell him that I'm sorry and I'll give him a discount or something."

Choso's heavy boots echoed against the floor as he walked away, leaving you alone with Geto once more. "So, tell me, what exactly is it that you're doing here again? And don't lie to me, talking about some 'I wanna see if my tattoo's healing properly,'" And you almost rolled your eyes at the way he raised his voice in pitch, mocking you with a short chuckle. Almost.

"First of all, I don't sound like that. Second, I really did just come to see if it was healing properly," And despite your words, you couldn't bring yourself to move from the chair just yet. "So maybe I should go tell Larue to come back for his appointment. Since we determined your tattoo's healing nicely, our time's done," You would've thought that he was bluffing but he moved to get up from his chair, walking over to the door.

"Wait," you called out before he managed to turn the doorknob, looking over to see him already staring at you with an expectant look on his face. Like he was about five seconds away from telling you to get off the leather chair. "So maybe, there's a slight chance that I didn't just come here just because I was concerned about my tattoo," you muttered almost reluctantly, avoiding looking at him directly.

"And why don't you try telling me why you came here instead?" Suguru stepped away from the door, returning to his spot in the seat next to you. Where you couldn't avoid looking at him even if you wanted to. How would you even begin telling him that he's been clouding your mind since last week just from that three hour interaction? That you've refreshed his Instagram page more times than you could count to see what he'd say about the piece?

You gulped, willing for the words to come out before he got the chance to go back to the door again. But you couldn't. Couldn't bring yourself to the potential humiliation that would inevitably come if you had just been delusional about this all along.

"You here because you want me to fuck you?" And the words that you'd struggled to spit out, he'd just said them so bluntly. You were expecting for him to look at you with that same mocking smile from earlier, but he seemed to be genuinely analyzing you. Waiting. "No, no, of course, I was just here to.." You hadn't quite rehearsed for this part in your mind.

"Because if you were, then I'd say that I was thinking about you too, cutie," and before you had the chance to respond, he was already speaking again, "So I'm just gonna ask you again. Are you here because you want me to fuck you?"

Now that there was little chance of your advances getting rejected, the word slipped out so easily, "Yes."

"Go on and lay back for me. Wanna taste you," and by how quick he was to get on his knees in front of you, you'd guess that he was doing this for his pleasure more than yours. "Lift up your hips," you followed his words without hesitation, letting him slide your jeans off and place them to the side. Large tattooed hands spread your thighs apart, presenting you like a feast to the man before you.

And you would've felt some ounce of embarrassment for the wet spot that quickly built up in the middle of your panties in just the five minutes of being here—if it weren't for the fact that Geto's cock was already straining against the material of his jeans. "Mph, fuck!" Geto quickly pulled your attention back to the issue at hand, his tongue prodding against your clothed cunt. "Not so loud, you don't want Choso to hear us," he clicked his tongue, giving you somewhat of a relief when he pulled away.

A very short lived relief. His tongue traced the outline of your slick folds through the material of your thin panties, his eyes closed. The tip of his tongue swirled against your clit, your cunt leaking out onto your underwear. You'd be lucky at this rate, if you could wear them back home. And almost like he'd read your mind, his fingers hooked in the waistband of your panties before sliding them down to your ankles.

You waited to feel his tongue on your cunt again—but nothing came. You looked over at him, watching as he just observed your weeping pussy. "Thought you were eager to taste," you muttered, a scoff leaving from his lips. A gust of wind blowing to your cunt, your walls clenching all the much more. Eager to receive whatever he could give. "Let me admire for a bit. We got enough time," Suguru let out a small tsk after, his face in front of your cunt. And before you had the chance to say anything more—his tongue was already on your labia.

Your syrupy slick dripped onto his expecting tongue, his eyes almost rolling back at the taste. The small silver ball at the end of his tongue piercing flicked against your folds with every lick, each touch serving to have you clenching around pure air. Your hips bucked up to meet his movements, his large hands holding you down in mere seconds. "What'd I say? Let me enjoy this, pretty girl. Told you we got enough time."

"Such a tease," your grumbled words came out more breathless than you would've liked. "And you're so impatient," he retorted without missing a beat. A hushed whine escaped from your lips when you felt him pull away, his mouth moving to your inner thighs. Pressing open mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin, nibbling down just hard enough for it to leave a mark behind. "Promise I'll take care of you, sweet girl. Have some trust in my abilities."

“You say that but your abilities have been less than stellar lately."

A couple dark locks fell out of place, framing his face almost perfectly. You'd almost expected Suguru to look offended at the implication of your words—but all he did was seem to find some kind of amusement. "Guess I'll have to repair that then," he murmured, more so to your cunt than to you, his tongue prodding in and out of your entrance. "You're not doing a g-Oh fuck!" He immediately made you swallow whatever retort you were planning, his tongue penetrating inside of you. 

Suguru swiped his tongue up and down your cunt, the lower half of his face covered in a mixture of your slick and his own spit. Your eyes fluttered shut, the tip of his nose prodding against your clit with every swipe that he made. "Keep looking at me, pretty. Keep those pretty eyes on me," you opened your eyes to see purple eyes already looking back at you, resuming his actions all too greedily. He was so messy when it came to eating you out—spitting into your cunt, watching almost all too eagerly as you clenched around the liquid.

"Please," a whine left your lips, your fingers tugging on his hair. Whatever act of defiance you'd tried to put on earlier had quickly faded away, all you were feeling was need. An almost slutty moan left his lips at the sudden tug, one of his hands grabbing on to yours. "Come on, you can pull harder, can't you?" An even louder groan escaped his lips at the harder tug you gave this time around—the tips of your fingers digging into his scalp. "Now, what were you saying please for?" His words came out muffled, his face buried in between your legs. "Your fingers, please."

"Since you asked so nicely," Suguru took to that almost immediately, two long fingers pushing past the ring of muscle before curling to hit your g-spot. His mouth instantly attached itself to your throbbing clit, pushing through your clitoral hood to get to the bundle of nerves. "F-Fuck, don't stop, don't stop," you sounded like a broken record, your thighs pressing tightly against the sides of his face while his tongue swirled around your clit.

"Gonna cum, gonna cum," any other thought that you had apart from cumming had been quickly fucked out of you, your grip on his hair tightening even further. Not that Suguru minded by any means, moaning against your cunt with every tug. The vibrations only added to the dual stimulation, your back arching off the chair. Needing to get more. Pushing your hips against his face, bucking up to meet every swipe of his tongue. "Cum for me, princess, come on. You can do it, right?"

All you could do was nod, not wanting to be any louder than you already had been. Part of you had been surprised that Choso hadn't come by knocking earlier. Suguru continued flicking his tongue around your clit, working in synchrony with his fingers to pull your orgasm out of you. "Fuck fuck, gonna cum!" You weren't sure if your muffled moan made it's way into Suguru's ears, watching as he eagerly lapped up your release. Running his tongue across his lips, your slick making them glisten under the lights.

"Get on all fours," Suguru told you after you'd managed to regain your breath, deft fingers working to unzip his jeans. You got on your stomach, resting it against the cold leather while getting on your hands and knees. And if Choso were to come into the room to be quiet now, he'd get a spectacular view of your ass perched up in the air. Suguru ran his cock against your folds, your slick lubricating it with ease after your previous orgasm.

Ridges running down his shaft brushed up against your tight walls, your slick coating his tip like second nature the further that he pushed it in. Your walls clenched and unclenched rapidly in a futile attempt to get used to the pure stretch of his cock. "You can take it, right? This isn't anything," But the sheer girth of his cock was just enough to dispute that statement, the position making him feel much deeper than he was. "Yeah, yeah, I can take it," your voice came out as a mewl, your grip on the leather getting tighter the more he pushed his cock in.

The rhythm that he started up was fairly slow at first, allowing you to get used to the feeling. Whatever he was lacking in length, he certainly compensated for it with the sheer size of his girth. Just a couple inches inside of you and he'd already stuffed you full. "Doin' so good, gonna speed up, okay?" He waited for you to nod, retracting his cock before pushing the full length inside of you with one sharp thrust. Your mouth went agape, your eyes almost rolling to the back of your head upon the impact. "So good, so so good," even after a couple thrusts, he already sounded so obsessed.

"That's ittt, that's my girl. Fuck that ass back into me," A strangled groan left his throat at the sight of your ass cheeks jiggling underneath him with every thrust, the two of you moving in tandem. One of the hands that'd been on your waist went to cup whatever he could of the flesh, all too entranced with the vision presented in front of him. "Mm, fuck!" A moan left your lips as you felt the palm of his hand strike against the flesh, your ass stinging from the impact. Not to say that you necessarily hated it, by any means.

And Suguru caught it—the way your slick ran down his shaft at the sudden impact. "Should've fucking guessed you would've liked it," his tone practically dripped in condescension as he spoke, his hand going to cup your other ass cheek. Holding the flesh in his hands before giving you another harsh slap, almost rivaling the harsh smack of his hips against your own. "Shit shit, Geto, don't stop," you whined, pushing your ass back into him. "Think it's okay for you to call me Suguru after bein’ inside you and all."

"Suck," a simple command, two of his fingers in front of your face. Your tongue swirled around his fingers, tasting the remnants of your cum on them before letting it fall flat. Simply sucking on his fingers as his cock pushed in and out of you with such fervor. "Get 'em all nice and wet for me, just like that," Suguru pushed his fingers deeper into your mouth the second you started to get too loud again, tears building up at your waterline when you gagged on them. "Aw, don't cry, cutie. Y'know I had to."

And while his words were meant to be reassuring, the mocking tone of his voice was anything but. Spit dribbled down from the corners of your mouth, dripping onto the chair beneath you. "Sugu-Sugu, fuck, right there!" He'd adjusted the angle of his hips, his shaft brushing up against your g-spot with every thrust. "So. Fucking. Tight," each of his words was accentuated with a deep thrust of his hips, filling you up impossibly so. Like he wanted to show you just how much he'd been thinking about it, like he claimed he did.

If the moans coming out of you weren't evidence enough as to what was happening in the room, then you were pretty much certain that the plap! plap! echoing through the walls was evidence enough. Geto's heavy balls smacked against your ass with every harsh thrust of his hips. He brought his hand down to your clit, rubbing at the nub just in time for it to match his pace. You clamped around his cock like a vice, a strangled moan leaving out of his lips. "Just had to tell- shit me that you wanted my cum, ma."

"Mph, cumm- I'm cumm-" Muffled babbles left your mouth, your cunt clenching around him yet again. A creamy ring formed around the base of his cock, his thrusts getting sloppier and faster. Whatever small bits of concern about being too loud had been disregarded—loud squelches and skin clapping filling up the room as Suguru rutted inside of you. You turned your head to look over at him, the sight before you almost like something out of a painting. His hair had completely been released from the half-bun, cascading down his back perfectly and his eyes were closed in pure bliss.

Spurts and spurts of cum shot deep inside of you, his cock twitching as you milked him for whatever he could offer. Suguru pulled his softening cock out of your cunt, his cum starting to dribble out of you and down your thighs. With the same fingers he'd had inside your mouth, he pushed his cum back inside of you. Scooping the substance up with relative ease. Your body slumped against the chair, willing that Geto would give you a couple seconds to catch your breath.

You'd expected him to grab a wipe or a paper towel to clean you up with, but he simply got up from his spot behind you. Grabbing his pants off the floor and fastening up his fly. You looked over at him through half lidded eyes, seeing him pop the fingers that had previously been in your cunt into his mouth. Slurping at them in a similar fashion that you'd done just a couple minutes prior. "Wanna taste yourself, pretty girl? 'S so fucking good."

Geto didn't give you a chance to respond before he was leaning down to your level, one of his fingers underneath your chin to raise your head. He leaned in, his lips pressing against yours in a messy exchange. More of spit getting intertwined than an actual kiss, not that you minded in your state. His tongue flicked against yours, the bittersweet taste of both you and him combined filling your tastebuds. Geto pulled away after a couple seconds, a string of saliva connecting the two of you.

You hadn't even finished putting on your pants yet when Suguru spoke up yet again,

"You mind giving me a five star review when you get home?"

A/N: if you’re asking yourself how many times i’m gonna repost this, the answer’s yes ❤️

[julymusings]

OPPOSITES ATTRACT

because love is the stack of biographies on your nightstand with a bookmark near the end.

It’s no secret that Jason Todd loves to read.

More often than not, you can find him lounging on his couch during the day, or in bed before sleeping, with one hand resting behind his head and a paperback in the other. He reads everything— classical, romance, horror; you name it, he’s at least tried it. And there’s little you love more than wiggling your way into the space between him and the cushions, letting him lie his head in your lap so you can run your fingers through his hair while he reads. You’ve come to associate the smell of books with him; the rustic scent of old paper clings to his skin, is a permanent part of his apartment walls.

You were never much of a reader, but there’s something about the way he describes the stories to you. He eagerly retells the plots of his favorite novels; takes you to the plains of Hertfordshire and the hills of Switzerland. You don’t need to read his books to know the characters unequivocally, picture their faces, and hear their voices in your head. You tried to pursue it yourself, for him, because it’s something he loves, and you love him. But reading has never been your strong suit. It’s difficult to focus—you zoned out during audiobooks, the words didn’t make sense, and sometimes, it’s just plain boring. You were so determined at first, telling Jason how excited you were to read his favorite book. His genuine excitement warmed something inside you, but left another part hollow with dread— you could not disappoint him.

But it was hard. You’re not a reader, and you never have been. You really tried, resorting to more creative measures like SparkNotes summaries, fidget toys, reward systems, and on one hopeless day, an automated-voice summary recorded over a sped-up play through of Subway Surfers.

When you walked into his apartment this morning, praying that last night’s patrol was exhausting enough to push your promise to the back of his mind, the hopeful look on his face when he asked you how you liked the book sent your stomach plummeting down three floors.

You panicked.

Regurgitated the only line from the Subway Surfers summary that stuck with your brain. You should have known better, thinking you could successfully lie to a trained detective, someone whose life depends on reading body language and carrying out successful interrogations.

Now, spread out on the couch with a thick bandage around his ribs, he has a funny look on his face—a tiny crease between his eyebrows, his head cocked to the side like a puppy. You wring your hands together while fighting to keep the flat, pained smile on your face.

“You thought it was…” Jason’s eyes narrow, and the corner of his mouth quirks down. “Say that again, sweetheart?”

Your skin feels damp as you struggle to keep eye contact; a classic sign of suspicion— something Jason taught you.

You keep your voice even, fighting against your mouth’s urge to drag your smile down into a grimace. “It was very relevant to the current political climate. Very…poignant.”

“Poignant?” He raises his eyebrows, nodding. “What’s poignant about it?” His eyes glint under the dimmed apartment light, amusement coloring his features.

Your lips press together.

“Babe?” He prompts after you take too long to search for an answer.

“Hm?”

“The book?”

Jason slings one arm over the back of the couch, the other absentmindedly rubbing over his bandages. Your face burns.

After another few moments of silence, and your artificial eagerness locked into a stalemate with his goading smirk, Jason relents.

His hand thuds against his thigh, tapping it twice to beckon you to come closer from your seat at the other end of the couch. Reluctantly, you obey.

“Baby,” he says kindly. He pushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “It’s okay if you don’t like it.” 

You busy yourself with picking at a piece of lint on your sleeve.

“It’s…not that I don’t like it,” you say, finally. “I just can’t. Every time I try to sit down and read—and I really tried—it doesn’t work. I don’t know what it is.”

Jason smiles so warmly, it melts away all your worries. “You don’t have to read it just because I like it.”

Your lips purse into a pout. “But you were so excited when I asked to borrow it.”

“I was excited because you were excited. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

“But I do want to,” you groan, dropping your head onto his shoulder. He kisses the top of your head, and his lips stay there. “It’s your favorite, and it sounds so good when you talk about it. I want to know about the things you like. But I just— I can’t focus.”

You sigh into his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you mumble.

He smiles into your hair. “It’s okay. Thank you for trying, though.”

Your response is a non-committal whine that gets muffled by his skin.

“Why don’t we try something else?” He asks.

You lift your head to look at him.

“Hand me the book?” Jason motions across the couch.

You reach for your bag, fishing out the worn, soft-cover novel, and gingerly place it in his hands, as if it were a delicate piece of crystal—to him, it probably is.

“Can I read to you?” Jason’s voice is soft, eyes gentle and forgiving.

You nod.

As he flips it open to the first page, you settle into his side. He begins to read;

“When I stepped out into the sunlight from the darkness of the movie house, I had only two things on my mind…”

His rocky, baritone voice reverberates through his body, humming against your skin.

This time, the words stick.

divider

hey guys. how y'all doing. i don't love how this turned out. it feels ooc and too short but i am having bad writer's block rn so i made myself write something and this is what i could manage, and it's better than nothing and was also not proofread sorry man idk what to tell you :/

It's common to write Jason x reader with a reader who also likes to read (myself included, it makes for a great meet cute/icebreaker/etc), but I wanted to write something for the girlies who don’t like reading too!! It fits for someone who either has trouble reading, or just doesn’t like it, whichever fits your fancy. Hope u enjoyed

also ofc i'm a jason jane austen fan truther but i do hc his fave being the outsiders. it just fits, i feel

quote is julia nicole camp from nyt tiny love stories <3

[swordsandholly]

Cherry Bomb - tattoo parlor anthology

MDNI | poly 141 x fem fat reader | masterlist

Part 6: Where…?

The first thing out of your mouth when you wake is a low, discontent groan as your hands fist the blankets around you. Your head and eyes throb. For a good several minutes, you remain completely still - no motivation to move from your semi-comfortable position. You really can’t drink like you used to, huh?

Eventually you work up the courage to crack your eyes open. At least the curtains are closed. The room takes a minute to focus, and the first thing you notice are the incorrectly colored sheets - lacking the usual floral print. You frown, grunting as you sit up. The second thing you notice is the t-shirt and sweatpants you’re currently wearing - not yours and easily a couple sizes too big. They have to belong to someone wide and tall to not be fitted on you. You don’t remember going home with anyone…

You take a moment to look around. It’s a decently sized room with minimal decor. A few art prints line the walls and the closet is in perfect order - separated by type and color. Though, most of it appears to be black. The bed is huge. Tall, too, you realize as you slowly slip your way out of it, nearly tripping on the long fabric of the sweatpants you’ve been dressed in. Glancing at yourself in the small mirror on the wall, you realize your makeup is gone and your hair is braided. There’s a dark wooden dresser and a matching desk with a laptop and sketchbook neatly placed on top. You wander over nosily, squinting down at the book. Oh shit! Oh shit, that’s Simon’s sketchbook. You’d recognize that collection of skull pattered stickers anywhere.

The sound of clinking pans and the scent of bacon slowly registers. Did… did you somehow end up going home with him? There’s no way, right? You remember asking him to dance, you remember him being surprisingly good and… and… that’s about it. On top of the dresser is your outfit from the night before, neatly folded with your bra tucked underneath. Your face heats and you cover your chest.

After a quick self inspection (and a nervous check for condoms in the trash) you decide you’re pretty sure you didn’t fuck anyone. Probably. Hopefully. What happens if you did? Would Simon tell John? Should you tell John? Will it make things awkward? Will he fire you? Oh, you really don’t want to lose this job. It’s the best you’ve ever had and you really, truly love all your boys so much. You press the heels of your hands into your eyes both to soothe the ache in them and to bite back tears.

You’ve always been such a stupid girl.

After giving yourself a few minutes to sit on the bed and properly freak out, flapping your hands in an attempt to get that nervous energy out of your system, you decide it’s time to face the music.

You slip your bralette back on before slowly cracking open the bedroom door. The short hall is mostly shadowed, lights off and the sun drifting in from what you assume is the living room. The door across from you is closed and to your left is a rather nice, spotless bathroom.

You peak your head out into the living room. It’s large and open, flowing into the kitchen as hardwood becomes tile and an island with stools between the two. Simon is the source of the clinking, apparently, moving around the stove like it’s second nature. You suppose you shouldn’t be surprised he can cook - he’s a grown man - but there’s something about the way he arranges the plates, the from-scratch ingredients, that tells you he does actively enjoys it.

It’s cute.

Johnny and Kyle sit on a well loved couch just a few feet from you, both focused on some TV show you don’t recognize. A slow frown forms on your face, turning into shock as the door beside you opens. You nearly jump out of your skin as John appears beside you in a robe and plaid pajama pants.

A soft smile splits his face. “Mornin’, dove.”

“Och, she’s awake!” Johnny grins, throwing an arm over the back of the couch as he turns to face you.

You blink dumbly, head pounding and gut churning as you step closer to stand beside the couch. Without thinking you blurt, “You all… live together?”

“Course.” Kyle pipes up, looking at you as well. As if you were supposed to have known that already.

You melt to the floor in a hungover heap. “Oh, thank god!”

Johnny laughs. “Why thank god?”

“I was so scared I did something stupid…” Your voice cracks as you press your cheek to the cool hardwood. You didn’t fuck anyone, you didn’t embarrass yourself, you were simply taken care of. The relief alone almost makes you want to cry. Though, that’s probably the hangover more than anything.

“Oh, love.” Kyle reaches down to soothe a hand over your hair. “We wouldn’t have done anything like that, yeah?”

You nod.

“Sorry it scared you.” John murmurs, crouching to set a mug of coffee on the floor beside your head. “We didn’t feel comfortable sendin’ y’home alone.”

You nod again, slowly pushing yourself up to grab the mug. The bitter taste of black coffee makes you cringe, but it wakes your system up and seems to push your hangover down to a tolerable level.

“I should go home…” You sigh, not moving a single muscle off the floor where you currently sit.

“Not before you eat somethin’.” Simon calls from the kitchen.

You take the opportunity to look around the living room. The sun has been mostly blocked out by barely cracked curtains. There’s a little bit of each of them in it - artwork scattered across the walls. A few photos - one of John and Simon that looks like the opening of the shop. The leather pride flag sticker stuck on what looks like a toolbox doesn’t escape your notice. Probably John’s. You’ve never seen another man with such well cared for boots and leather coats. Maybe that’s assumptive. There’s a game boy and a PS5 behind the 4K television. Your eyes follow the rather extensive sound system to a massive CD organizer. There’s a short hall on the opposite side of the apartment where you assume the other two rooms are. Everything is so… homey. Comfortable.

“Wait, who’s clothes are these?” You ask suddenly, staring down at the oversized t-shirt and tightly tied sweatpants that pool at your feet awkwardly.

“Mine.” Simon shrugs, setting a plate on the coffee table for you before handing two more off to Johnny and Kyle.

“Comfy.” You hum, eyes zeroing in on the large breakfast in front of you - plate piled high with bacon, sausage, and waffles.

“Ye can sit up here wit’ us.” Johnny pats the empty couch beside him.

You think for a moment before shaking your still aching head. “Don’t think I should stand up yet.”

The food is even better than it looks. For a Brit Simon actually knows how to handle his flavors.

You groan as a particular rough throb stabs at your temple. “I don’t remember drinking enough to be this hungover…”

“Johnny can be very convincing.” Simon rumbles, stabbing a piece of sausage.

“What do you remember?” Kyle leans forward a bit to reach for his coffee.

You shrug. “I remember dancing. That’s kind of where it stops.”

“At least you got to skip the part of the night where Johnny starts rantin’ about chemistry math.” Kyle rolls his eyes.

“Och! Ye love my chemistry talk! It’s the structure of the universe! It’s-“

“Yap yap yap.” Kyle opens and closes his hand in a mocking ‘blah blah blah’ motion.

Kyle helps Simon clean up. You try to insist to let you help as well, but they won’t hear of it. John offers to let you stay the day and sleep off your hangover but you shake your head, wanting nothing more than to take a burning hot shower in your own bathroom - as fun as hanging around with them all day sounds. So, you slip into Simon’s room to change back into your own clothes.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Kyle rest a hand on Simon’s lower back. A light touch, but solid. You don’t have the wherewithal to think about it.

You peel off Simon’s clothes and put yours back on with a wrinkled nose. There’s something so gross about it, not that you’re clean right now anyway. Thank god you had the foresight to not wear underwire. You order yourself a car on your mostly dead phone as you wander back out to the living room. Your skirt suddenly feels far too exposing for the daylight.

You chew your lip. “My driver’s five minutes out… so, I’ll see you guys Wednesday?”

“I’ll walk you down.” John grunts, pulling himself up out of the arm chair.

“Oh, you don’t have to-” You pause when he gives you that look you’ve come to recognize as ‘don’t argue, I’m doing it anyway.’

You give a round of goodbyes to the others who make no movement to get off the couch, fully sunken in. Johnny has sprawled over the L part of the couch with an arm over his eyes and a water bottle in hand.

“Thanks for letting me stay over. Sorry if I got too, uh, sloppy or whatever.” You murmur as the elevator makes for the lobby.

John chuckles. “No more than Johnny ever does. I’m glad you came. Lookin’ forward to the next one.”

You heart skips as you nod. “Me too.”

John leans forward just as your driver pulls up, pressing a light kiss to your forehead. Your back stiffens and your stomach flutters - face hot as he pulls away.

“See you at the shop.” He nods, sauntering back into the building like he didn’t just give you a heart attack.

Bonus:

“No, ye need an oil cleanser first.” Johnny slurs. “Tha’s how ye get the - hic - the makeup off.”

“Don’t act like I didn’t teach you everythin’ you know about skin care y’muppet.” Kyle snipes back as he digs through the drawers under the counter.

“Workin’ on yer John impersonation, I see.” Johnny snickers. Kyle bats at his arm.

You just giggle, seated on the toilet in Kyle and Johnny’s shared bathroom and swaying back and forth. Simon leans in the doorway, watching as the two drunkenly try to help you get your makeup off. All three of you bursting out into another fit of giggles when Kyle squeezes your round cheeks to make a fish face. It occurs to him that he’s never seen you bare faced. None of them have. Not that you come in everyday with a full beat but even so, there’s something intimate about it. To him, at least. Something about you perched in their apartment, in his clothes, having Johnny smudge moisturizer over your face while Kyle braids your hair to keep it from tangling overnight.

The three of you fit together so well…

John puts on a stupid action movie. Something to distract everyone as you wind down and sober up before bed. You snuggle up to Johnny, unsurprisingly, tucking yourself under his arm with your head on his chest. He’s practically Pavlov’d you into constantly touching each other. Just like he did with the rest of them. He jumps a bit when you press your socked feet to his thigh, humming comfortably. There’s a stupid grin plastered across your face.

“Alright, off to bed with you.” John chuckles as you snore comfortably on Johnny’s chest. The Scot is equally asleep, your chests rising and falling in an asynchronous rhythm. John loops his arms under your back and knees, just as strong as he’s always been, carefully cradling you against his chest as he takes you to Simon’s room.

Simon follows, glancing sideways at your clothes in his dresser. You groan as John lowers you but don’t wake up - well and truly passed out.

Simon pauses for a moment before following John out, staring down at you. He’s no better than the others, the alcohol numbing his inhibitions. So, he reaches down, and swipes a thumb over your slightly parted lips. Just as soft as he thought…

He settles into John’s bed, the frame creaking under their combined weight. Neither of them are particularly slight, after all.

“Glad y’danced tonight.” John mutters, reaching over to turn off his lamp.

Simon just grunts.

“She’s good for you.”

“She’s good for us.” He blurts, immediately wanting to shove the words back down his throat.

To his surprise, John just nods, turning to sling an arm over Simon’s waist. “She is.”

A/N: Thank you all so much for enjoying this series with me, it means a ton! I’m sorry I’m not very good at responding to replies/asks but I really do love and appreciate you all!

Hope you’re pumped for the next part bc I am

[ellewritesx]

right person, wrong address

Summary: When an envelope meant for Harry Styles ends up in your mailbox, what started with misdelivered mail might end up delivering something neither of you expected.

A/N: this is my first tumblr fic guys be gentle! i don't have any other posts lined up yet, just kinda wanted to get my first one out of the way and see what you guys thought. i'm still kind of finding my style, so don't take this too seriously. hope you like it x

Word Count: 2,416

...

Londom hums with the quiet taps of rain against your windows. It's not a storm, just the kind of drizzle that makes everything feel still and turns the world soft around the edges. You haven't quite figured out how to make the heat work properly in your new apartment yet, so you're curled up on the couch with a blanket, a chipped mug of tea warming your hands: one of your most recent thrift store finds.

There are unpacked boxes you've been procrastinating unpacking still scattered across your living room, but you're too tired from assembling the closet in your bedroom. It's a little crooked, and for some reason there were five bolts and a plank of wood left when you were done (where the hell did those come from?), but you're proud of your little handiwork nonetheless.

You nearly forget to check the mail, your package (a gorgeous flowery pillow cover set, score) supposed be arriving today.

You throw on a hoodie, walking down the stairs to your mailbox down by the entryway, the red paint chipping and the little silver slot barely budging. You wrestle the box open with a familiar clatter, sighing at the pile of papers. Junk flyers, something official-looking from your new job… and a minimalistic envelope.

Thick paper. Cream-colored. No return address. It's addressed to flat 5B. You live in flat 4B, so this envelope being accidentally delivered to you doesn't surprise you. The name written on it in sharp, slanted handwriting, on the other hand, does:

H. Styles

Your stomach dips. H. Styles?

You look again, thinking you must've read this... well, neat, handwriting wrong, but no, it's clear.

It's not that H. Styles, you tell yourself. Maybe there's a Henry Styles you're unaware of. Or a Howard Styles. Some poor sucker who's unfortunate enough to share a last name with a global popstar. Surely they're out there.

You hold the envelope delicately, as if it might disintegrate from the weight of the name alone. The paper feels… expensive. Private. You flip it over in your hands. It's sealed. Untouched. Your fingers twitch.

You're not going to open it. Obviously. That would be rude. No, illegal. Opening this envelope would be a federal crime. So you're definitely not going to. At least for now.

But you are going to look at the building's tenant list you got when you moved in, something about ''in case of emergencies'', like there'd ever be an emergency prompting you to call Greg from 4D who sits behind his computer all day, and whom you've frankly never seen besides at that one fire drill a week ago.

You pull the crumpled list out of your junk drawer in the kitchen, littered with various household items and papers you don't want to give a place but can't quite throw away. This is just out of curiosity. You're not a creep, you're... a responsible neighbour. That's all.

You chew on your lip absentmindedly as you skim over the list.

Flat 5B... Harry E. Styles.

You know enough about Harry Styles to know his middle name starts with an E. Edward, you believe. Something you've seen on social media: one of those dumb '12 fun facts about Harry Styles' videos on your For You page. What they didn't bother to give you a heads-up of, is the 'fun fact' Harry Styles happens to be your neighbour.

And for some godforsaken reason, some postal glitch or careless hand or twist of cosmic fate, you are currently holding what looks like a very important, very confidential piece of his mail.

...

You don't sleep well that night.

The envelope sits on your kitchen counter, practically begging to be opened, like an itch needing scratching. Every time you walk past it, your eyes flick to the name. You consider putting it in a drawer somewhere just to avoid the temptation, but even that feels too personal. Too nosy. This isn't your life to peek into.

Only by morning, when the initital shock has subsided, you realize you're going to have to get it back to him. How are you supposed to face him? Maybe you'll leave it in the lobby. Maybe you'll slide it under his door. Quick, anonymous, clean.

And then, around 11:00 a.m., there's a knock.

Not a timid tap. A proper, polite knock.

You freeze mid-step. No one knows you here. You've only lived in this flat two weeks. You're still the girl the neighbour across the hall calls ''newbie''.

When you open the door, he's there. Your pulse stutters like a scratched record.

Harry Styles.

Just… standing on your doormat like a fever dream in a hoodie and black beanie. Rain-speckled and wind-rumpled, holding his phone loosely in one hand, as if he only half-expected you to answer.

''Hi,'' he says, voice smooth but casual, like you're neighbors who've spoken a dozen times before. ''Sorry. Think my post might've ended up here.''

You blink. You stare. ''Right. You're... Harry Styles,'' you blurt, stupidly, like that's not exactly what not to say when you meet a celebrity.

He lets out a soft chuckle. ''That's what it says on the envelope, isn't it?'' he says charmingly, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

''Right,'' you smile apologetically. You vanish without even inviting him in, mentally screaming at yourself while you trip over the unpacked boxes in your living room to grab the envelope, cursing softly under your breath. You return quickly, trying not to breathe like you just ran a 24k. God, you need to exercise more.

He accepts it with careful hands. Turns it over once. Nods.

''Yeah, this is it. Thank you.''

His fingers linger on the seal. Then he discreetly glances past you, a little nosy. At your half-unpacked boxes. The record player tucked by the window. The steaming mug on your kitchen island.

''Would you...'' you start, then hesitate, ''would you like to come in for a cup of tea? We haven't properly met.'' You're surprised you actually managed to form a sentence.

''Love to,'' he replies smoothly, taking off his beanie by the door and ruffling his curls, that somehow fall right into place.

You make the tea with trembling hands.

He, in the meantime, wanders around, hands behind his back like he's admiring an exhibit in a museum. Looks at your books, your record collection, your useless, thrifted trinkets. Skims over your Polaroids. Laughs softly at the lopsided note stuck to your fridge: remember to call the heater guy!!! written in a panicked scribble.

''You just moved in?'' he assumes.

You nod, carefully handing him a cup of tea as he slides into a barstool at your kitchen island. ''Either the heater's broken or I've just got two left hands. Wouldn't be surprised if the latter was the case, actually,'' you chuckle.

He chuckles softly, absentmindely offering to come by sometime to fix it for you, and for a second, it feels… normal. Like he's just a kind neighbour offering a hand. Like you’re just two people talking over a cup of tea. Which you are, of course.

Except that one of the aforementioned two people is Harry Styles. Right. Just a regular Tuesday.

Conversation flows easier than you thought it would. You're quiet, simply nodding along or offering small comments on his stories, but he doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he seems to like it.

You take a sip from your mug, letting the steam warm your face. Across from you, Harry mirrors the movement, his legs crossed beneath him like he's been here a hundred times.

''So…'' he starts, watching you over the rim of his mug as he takes a sip. ''Why London?''

There's a beat of quiet, the soft, jazzy music from your record player in the background. You glance down at your tea, a bashful smile tugging at the corner of your lips. ''I guess I wanted to feel like I was somewhere where things happen, you know? Where people chase dreams. Even if I don't exactly know what mine is yet.''

He nods slowly, ''That's brave. Most people don't move cities without a plan.''

You chuckle. ''Sometimes you just have to throw yourself into the unknown, trusting that it'll work out. That you'll make it work out, y'know?''

Harry grins, and it makes your stomach flip. ''That's how I've done most things.''

''Like music?'' you ask.

''Especially music.''

...

The tea's long gone cold, but neither of you seem to mind. Harry sits in your barstool like he's in his own home, elbows on your kitchen island, mug cradled loosely in his hands. His eyes flicker toward the window, watching the early evening shadows stretching across the street, but he hasn't made a move to leave just yet.

You've been talking for hours now. About little things. Big things. Nothing at all. Weirdly, it's… comfortable. The silence between you two is the kind that invites, not suffocates.

You're humming quietly while drying and putting away the dishes, your back turned to where Harry's sat.

''You know,'' he says after a pause, voice low, ''this might be the first time in months I've been able to just sit. No schedule, no pressure. No... fans or paparazzi. Just… this.''

You glance at him. He's watching the half-full mug of tea in his hands like it holds the answer to all of his problems. There's a crease between his brows, like he's thinking too hard, the same face you'd see in interviews when he's figuring out how to answer a particularly hard question. But right now, he's not that person. He's just your neighbour sitting in your tiny, cluttered kitchen, silently admiring the trinkets that fill it like the normalcy fascinates him.

You don't say anything. You have a feeling he's not looking to be comforted. He just wants to be heard out. To be able to think out loud without fearing someone's documenting his every word, his every move, and twisting it into things far out of his control.

He looks up at you. There's something weighted in his gaze now, something warmer. You feel it stir in your stomach: not nerves exactly, but something deeper, the heavy weight of a genuine connection between two people.

And then, quietly, he speaks up. ''Can I ask you something?''

You nod, not trusting your voice, leaning your elbows on the opposite side of the kitchen counter so you're face to face.

''Would you think I was weird if I said I don't really want to go yet?''

Your throat tightens a little. ''That depends,'' you respond with a harsh swallow, ''Would you think I was weird if I said I don't want you to go?''

His mouth pulls into a small half-smile, one you've seen in countless of photos while lazily scrolling through social media. But it feels different now. More vulnerable. Less rehearsed.

''I don't know what this is,'' he says, fingers tapping lightly against the mug. ''But I know it feels... nice. Being here. With you.''

You don't say anything. Just nod.

He puts the mug down. Then, cautiously, like he's waiting for you to stop him, he leans in slightly, and if you would have blinked you'd have missed the way his eyes flick to your lips discreetly. One hand brushes against your forearm, and the other finds a spot on the side of your face, thumb barely grazing your cheek.

''Tell me if this isn't okay,'' he murmurs.

You're quick to reasssure him, shaking your head, your eyes locked on his. ''It is.''

And then he kisses you.

It's slow at first, testing. Soft. Like he doesn't want to break whatever this strange, quiet connection between the two of you is. You kiss him back, hesitantly, but then a little deeper, because you can't not, with the way he's holding you like he's afraid he won't live up to his own name, his image, the expectations. Like the way he tastes like tea and warmth and the way his lips part just slightly doesn't make something flutter wildly in your chest.

His hand tentatively shifts to cradle the back of your head, drawing you in, but there's no rush.

When you pull apart, barely an inch of space between you, he lingers like he's thinking about going back in.

Your voice is a whisper. ''Thank God for those dumb mail guys.''

He chuckles, breath warm against your skin. ''Good thing they suck at their jobs.''

You laugh, cheeks flushed. He glances toward the door, then back to you. ''I should probably go before my manager has a heart attack. I think he's been refreshing The Daily Mail since last night.''

''Why?'' you chuckle softly, your head tilting in confusion.

He grins, looking at you in adoration, like he loves that you have no idea about the possible PR nightmares, that you're not part of his world in that way. ''He was afraid you'd sell the tour schedule to a news outlet. Terrified, actually,'' he clarifies with a soft chuckle.

You blink once. Twice. ''That was an option? Damn. I could've been rich by now,'' you mutter jokingly.

He rolls his eyes affectionately, cupping your face and leaning forward to draw you in for another sweet kiss. You pull away, a frown etched on your face. ''Wait, that was a tour schedule?'' you ask incredulously, not even bothering to conceal your shock and curiosity.

''And that's my cue to leave,'' he grins mischievously and stands, handing you his empty mug as a futile attempt to distract you.

''No, wait, a tour schedule? I'm going to need you to elaborate.''

''Did I say tour schedule? I meant... well, literally anything else. Bye,'' he says quickly before he can accidentally reveal more secrets.

''Hey, you come back, mister. Harry!'' you protest, following him to your door, making him pause and turn around with a smile.

A wink. ''I'll come by later to fix your heater, love,'' he simply says.

And just like that, he's gone, but not really. He's close, he lives right above you, after all, which makes you bite the inside of your cheek to stop from smiling like a lovesick teenager.

Your phone buzzes with a text barely ten minutes after he leaves. Unbeknownst to you, Harry could barely wait until he was back in his own apartment, grabbing his phone as soon as he plopped down on his couch with a content sigh, smiling at his screen as he types.

Next time, my place. —H

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

[hazbinhotei]

curing a hangover.

read part one here

warnings/tags: reader is hungover, alastor being a little shit, cunnilingus, P-in-V penetration, minor olfactophilia and dacryphilia if you look hard enough

word count: 6292

summary: The aftermath of one drunken night leaves you reeling—and Alastor surprisingly eager to help you recover in the most intimate way imaginable.

alastor x f!reader. my first ever smut fic, so please be gentle with me, my darlings. i did not expect this fic to end up so long but i really just had such a hard time diving straight into smut without some more interactions between reader and alastor—i love me some character building! i've always been a MDNI account, but especially in this instance—minors kindly go away!

It wasn’t just the hangover.

Though to be fair, the hangover was its own personal Hell—screaming behind your eyes like a banshee with a megaphone, and your stomach doing acrobatics that defied several laws of physics. Your mouth tasted like someone had poured sand into a blender with regret and served it lukewarm. Your soul felt wrinkled.

Even the walls of the hotel seemed to wince when you staggered into the kitchen, hoodie up, sunglasses on, and death in your eyes.

(The sunglasses indoors was definitely an active choice, a mental wave of a white flag as you hoped and prayed no one in this damned hotel would bring up the fact that you were so publicly caught snogging the Radio Demon less than 24 hours ago. At least, not bring it up while the tempest in your head demanded you rip apart the first demon who dared to piss you off this morning.)

No one dared speak to you. Husk took one look and slid the coffee pot across the counter like a peace offering before vanishing away down the hall. Niffty, bless her overly cheery heart, started to chirp a greeting—saw your face—and made a hard left turn, muttering something about reorganizing the mold drawer. Even Angel Dust tiptoed around you. Angel. A man who routinely did lines of coke on the lobby dining table at 2AM. He gave you a once-over and simply nodded in solemn solidarity.

But of course—it wasn’t just the hangover.

Of course.

The one person immune to your carefully cultivated aura of “speak and perish” was him.

Smug. Pristine. Radiant. Like he hadn't spent last night flirting with alcohol poisoning just to egotistically one-up you in a drinking game that he proposed you two play. Not a hair out of place. Not a wrinkle in sight. Wearing that damn bowtie like he’d earned it.

He didn’t just walk into the kitchen. No—he waltzed in, humming a cheery little tune and radiating danger in four-part harmony. You ignored him, continuing to stir your coffee, hoping he would show you some pity to at least not bother you for the first few hours of the day. But of course he wouldn’t. He was Alastor, of course.

You felt him before you saw him. That chilling presence sliding in behind you, brushing too close, violating several unspoken rules about personal space and hangover protocol. You felt your bloodshot eyes twitch, whether that be from the hangover or the Sinner standing right behind you, you weren’t sure. Inhaling slowly, you continued to look at the caramel-colored beverage in front of you, once more praying to any deity out there that perhaps you were just imagining his presence.

"Good morning, darling!" he purred, like your skull wasn't splitting open. "Sleep well?"

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t answer. Not when your entire existence was currently held together with willpower and lukewarm coffee. You weren’t planning to reply at all until he cleared his throat—clearly waiting.

You swore the mug cracked in your hand. “…I had a dream that I died. Peacefully. In my sleep. You ruined it.” 

He chuckled, that low, musical hum that scraped up your spine and took residence in your brain like a catchy song you couldn’t get rid of. "Such vivid dreams. I do hope I was in them."

Despite your irritation, your stomach fluttered at his soft tone, the vocal static accompaniment absent as sincerity intertwined with his usual mirth. You turned slowly, craning your neck to look at him through your sunglasses. Pursing your lips, you watched him through the tinted lenses. “You know, I think I like this color palette of you more.”

Alastor’s eyes seemed to narrow when you lifted your chin up defiantly, a deep rumble of satisfaction emitting from his chest. “Ah, but chère, now I can’t see those lovely eyes of yours!”

He leaned down to remove the sunglasses, his long fingers brushing against your temple a bit too gently for your liking. You were about to protest before Alastor ripped the glasses off your face, your frown twisting to hiss like a vampire as you shut your eyes tightly in a failed attempt to shield yourself from the light. “Alastor! What the fuck!”

He only laughed at your pain, dropping the sunglasses on the counter behind you and covering your upper face with his large palms. You continued to shut your eyes after the light behind your eyelids disappeared, not daring to open them and face the sadistic asshole in front of you. “I’m going to kill you.”

“Open your eyes, chère.” You shivered at the sudden proximity of his voice, his breath tickling your right ear as you involuntarily swallowed. You weren’t sure why you necessarily listened to Alastor, but as your eyes hesitantly fluttered open, you realized you weren’t in the headache-inducing bright lights of the hotel kitchen. No, you were suddenly greeted by plush red cotton sheets, pupils adjusting to the dim glow of soft green lights littering the walls. 

You glanced around, realizing quickly you were in a hotel room. Not any hotel room—Alastor’s. You jolted up from the bed, wincing as you moved a little too fast for your hangover’s liking. “Alastor, why exactly am I in your bed?”

Your eyes landed on Alastor standing by his desk, coat discarded on the loveseat next to him, fingers starting to undo his bowtie. You practically short-circuited at the scene, your cheeks turning a bright red as you blinked in surprise. “Al, what is going on?”

“Why, I’m here to cure your hangover, dearest,” he stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

You paused, trying to make sense of the current situation you were in—which was not giving you much to work with. Your brows furrowed. “And exactly how do you plan on helping?”

He hummed softly, placing his bowtie on the table as he approached your spot on the bed. “By getting in bed with you.” 

You choked on absolutely nothing, coughing up air as you gave him an incredulous look. “What?!”

“Oh please, nothing will come of this encounter if you don’t wish for anything to happen. I’m simply trying to help in any way I can.” He sighed dramatically, sitting on the edge of the bed next to you as he waved his hand over the other, a tall glass of water appearing in it.

You were too surprised by the turn of events to comprehend his statement, throat suddenly dry by the glorious cup of water practically dangling in front of you. He sighed once more, rolling his eyes as he handed you the glass. “Drink up.”

You snatched the cup with both hands and downed it, gulping so fast it nearly splashed back up your nose. Your eyes closed as you sigh in relief, your body an ounce better than it was before as you passed him the glass. Though you still had a raging headache, your eyes weren’t throbbing from any bright lights nor were you unknowingly suffering from dehydration now. 

“Would you like another one?” Alastor hums softly, watching your pacified expression. You shake your head, opening your eyes to look at Alastor. He was watching you with surprising patience, his smile small but genuine. You pause a moment to observe him, him merely doing the same as you meet his glowing stare. Those damn eyes—blood-red, always gleaming with mischief. But now, as he stared at you with uncharacteristic softness, you couldn’t help but get flashbacks from the way he watched you the entire time last night.

You inhaled through your nose, groaning as your moment of peace is suddenly interrupted by the remembrance of last night’s affairs. "...Are we going to bring it up or not?"

Alastor took a second to think, brow raising in confusion when he didn’t understand what you were talking about. "Bring what up, dear?"

You stared, huffing at him in exasperation. "The kiss, Alastor. Are we just gonna pretend that didn’t happen?"

His smile froze, ears twitching faintly—as if caught off by the thought of it as well. Then, just as quickly, he lit up like you’d handed him a fresh corpse wrapped in a bow and sealed with a kiss.

“Oh, that!” he chirped. “Heavens, no. I’d never forget something so…” He paused, his eyes dragging slowly—lazily—down your face. “…tantalizing!”

A sharp inhale slipped through your nostrils. You visibly recoiled, your face now a dangerous shade of crimson. “Tantalizing?!” you sputtered.

His smile turned downright wicked, lips curling upward. He leaned forward to set the empty glass on the bedside table, the movement smooth, casual. But your eyes betrayed you—snagging mid-motion, drawn down to the curve of his back, the subtle shift of fabric over lean muscle.

And then you saw it.

Somehow—somehow—you had missed it before. Blame the hangover. Blame the shock. Blame the fact that your brain was probably still rebooting from the whole appearing-in-Alastor’s-bed thing. But now that your gaze had landed on it, there was no un-seeing it.

The harness.

A jet-black leather harness wrapped around his broad chest, completely visible now that he was sans his usual red coat. Despite just drinking water, your throat suddenly felt extremely dry. You tore your staring upward like a Sinner yanking their hand from a Bible.

Too late.

He was already watching you. And oh, he was delighted.

His smile widened by degrees. His eyelids dipped into a half-lidded stare, slow and heavy with implication. There was no point pretending. Between your flushed cheeks and the way your eyes had lingered a millisecond too long, you may as well have been holding a neon sign that read: I JUST OGLED THE RADIO DEMON.

He savored your expression. A content hum rumbled in his chest, not quite a purr—but close.

“I do wonder, though,” he mused, voice dropping to a velvety murmur, “was it only the liquor?” His head tilted again, that playful glint never leaving his gaze. “Or...”—He leaned in slightly, just enough to send your pulse scattering—“would you still taste as sweet sober?”

Your eyes widened by the shift in his attitude, clearly feeling confident from your little staring mishap. Swallowing, you folded your arms, trying not to give into his very tempting flirting. “Alastor,” you warned, your tone brittle, “I’m five seconds away from tearing that smug expression off your face.”

“If that’ll help your hangover, by all means.”

You paused, confused if his words were another jest or genuine. “What?”

“I told you,” he said, gesturing innocently, “I’m here to cure your hangover. Whichever way you find fit.”

You blinked at him. Hard. The silence stretched. Finally, you squinted, hugging your crossed arms harder against your body with a slow, suspicious edge. “You’re messing with me.”

His brows raised in mock innocence. “Moi? Never. In fact…” he paused, his tone shifting just slightly—less cheek, more earnest, like the static had dialed down a notch. “I realize I’ve put you in quite the precarious situation. One that now, unfortunately, involves the rest of the hotel bearing witness. And for that”—He gave a faint, ironic bow of his head—“I do apologize.”

The cogs in your head churned in overtime to try and understand the current situation. 

You somehow were sitting in the middle of the Radio Demon’s bed, being pampered by that very demon himself, because he wanted to apologize? The very concept was laughable, and you especially found this whole thing unnecessary when it was simply a drunken mistake.

(Not to mention that you enjoyed every second of being in Alastor’s lap. How were you ever going to forget that intoxicating smell of cedarwood and death?)

You forced away your drifting thoughts, looking at him with a raised brow. “You’re doing all this to apologize? Really? All you did was kiss me.”

Alastor’s lips twitched, like he was resisting the urge to grin wider. It was a losing battle.

“Correction, dear,” he said, voice dripping with faux innocence. “You kissed me first.”

Your jaw dropped at how he completely ignored your question, instead focusing on your word choice. You scoffed, once again scandalized. “While wasted! That doesn’t count!”

“Ah,” he mused, tapping his chin as though pondering the secrets of the universe. “Then perhaps we should try again.”

You stiffened, throat catching at how he spoke so easily. His voice still held that familiar playful edge—but beneath it, something was shifting. The air thickened. His grin didn't widen this time. Instead, it softened, just a touch. Like he was testing the waters. 

His eyes flicked across your face—your mouth, your eyes, your mouth again. When he spoke next, the room felt smaller somehow. Quieter. You could hear the gentle hum of the fire in the hearth, blending seamlessly with the low radio static emitting off Alastor, the mattress creaking as he leaned a fraction closer.

“Why, I don’t do this often, you know,” he murmured, the static in his voice dimmed as he almost gave you a bashful look.

Your brows furrowed.

“And I realize,” he continued slowly, almost cautiously, “our unfortunate interruption last night may have left… desires unfinished for you.”

His eyes searched yours, expression unreadable. But his voice—oh, his voice—held the kind of vulnerability that cracked through your defenses like light under a locked door.

“I’m here to help.”

You blinked at him, stunned. The words didn’t even register at first—not fully. Not until they echoed in your chest a second time.

“…Wow,” you managed, trying to keep your tone light, deflecting with a slight teasing huff. “How noble, Alastor.” You bit your lip at how Alastor’s gaze studied every detail of your expression like a hunter, his lips thinning as if he was waiting for more from you—a challenge wrapped in silk.

You swallowed down your nerves, catching on the way his intertwined fingers twitched in his lap. “...Did it leave unfinished desires… for you?”

He stilled, his eyelids dropping as he took in a deep inhale at your words. And when he looked at you again, there was no mask. His smile had turned into something so hesitant—so faint that it barely registered in your mind as a smile at all, the corners of his mouth barely upturned. A long, soft silence filled the room as he looked at you with such intensity, you forgot how to breathe.

“I’d be lying,” he said, voice suddenly deep and sure, “if I said I am not undoubtedly yours, ma chère.”

The world stopped. Your breath caught. The heat that had been simmering under your skin now rushed to the surface, electric and dizzying. You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but the words tangled. You hadn’t expected that. Not from him.

The man sitting in front of you was one of Hell’s most feared Overlords, a man who had crumbled the strongest of demons. And yet, he was also a man who had just confessed his feelings for you, just hours after french kissing you in a drunken stupor. Sure, Alastor had always seemed to be kinder to you than to anyone else in the hotel, but you had always just brushed that off to be mere acceptance of your presence—not a fondness for it.

Alastor simply waited patiently for your reply, legs crossed politely over the edge of the bed as he twisted his body to face you. His ears were flat against his head, his thumb tapping against his skin in a small display of nerves. And Satan help you, your heart surged at the sight like a moth to a flame.

“I—” you started, voice breathy. But as your brain failed to come up with a response, you didn’t try to say anything else.

You just leaned in, cupping his cheeks with your palms as you placed a gentle kiss on his lips. The gesture was familiar. But this time—unlike the inebriated mess of a kiss you’d given him last night—you had the decency to pull back. The radio static in the room swelled, the old radio on one of Alastor’s shelves crackling to life, playing a charming jazz melody.

“Dare I presume that’s your way of telling me you share the same sentiments toward me, darling?” Alastor chuckled, pulling his hands away from his lap to lean in closer to you.

Before you could react, Alastor had leaned in close once more, stealing another kiss from your lips. You couldn’t help but giggle in response, “Yes, you ass.” You gave him a light kiss on the cheek, your eyes twinkling with joy. “I’d hope you’d think I’m better than to just snog any demon in the lobby, drunk or not.”

Alastor’s grin turned sly, humming in satisfaction at your words. You gasped as he pushed you down onto the bed, your body bouncing gently as you found yourself now facing upwards. Your mind blanked at the sight of Alastor popping off his shoes, rolling off the leather harness with practiced ease. He climbed onto the bed alongside you, draping a casual arm around your body as he laid beside you. 

“Oh, I knew your kiss seemed too passionate for me to be just a passing fancy,” Alastor teased, “Good news is that I’ve found a lasting obsession with having your lips on mine.”

He didn’t wait for you to react as he leaned in to kiss you once more, this time harder. You sighed into the kiss, eyes fluttering shut as he pulled you closer. His hand found the side of your waist, firm but not forceful, fingers splaying like he was grounding himself in the moment. His lips were warm, steady, moving against yours with a relaxed confidence that stood in sharp contrast to the rushed, sloppy kisses from the night before.

And oh, the effect it had on you.

You shifted instinctively, hand coming up to bury your fingers into the trimmed hair at the nape of his neck. He hummed at the contact, the sound reverberating against your lips—low and pleased, a static buzz of delight that thrummed in your chest.

He tilted his head to deepen the kiss, nose brushing yours, and for a fleeting second you forgot what air was. His lips parted slightly, inviting you to meet him halfway, and when your tongues brushed, your breath hitched. That was all he needed to hear.

“Mmm… positively divine,” Alastor murmured as he pulled away just enough to catch your dazed expression. His smile was lazy now, lopsided and glowing with something deeper than amusement. “You make the air taste sweeter, chérie.”

“Flatter me more, why don’t you,” you teased breathlessly, though your voice came out more of a whimper than anything else. He chuckled, deep and velvety, as he leaned in again—no room left for anything between you now but fabric and heat.

This time, it was slower. 

Less fire, more honey. His kisses dragged along your lips like he had all the time in Hell to savor you—and damn, it felt like he would. He brushed his nose along your cheekbone, feathered kisses down to your jaw, then up again as you curled into his touch, the edge of your thigh sliding along his leg. His velveteen hand traced gentle circles at your hip, occasionally slipping beneath the hem of your hoodie just far enough to let you feel the scalding contact of skin against skin. But he never pushed. Never rushed.

Instead, he lingered like a melody stuck on a loop, exploring the shape of your lips with his own, pressing kisses that grew longer, needier, then softer again. He was addicted, drunk on your taste, his usual collected composure starting to become carnally hungry as he continued his kisses.

“You’re… you’re really not gonna stop, huh?” you asked, giggling between kisses as you tried to catch your breath.

Alastor nipped at your lower lip, grinning devilishly. “Darling,” he whispered, his voice dipping into a fond growl, “not unless you ask me to. But I do hope you won’t, because I am utterly enchanted.”

Again and again, he kissed you, each one a little different than the last—some chaste, some daring, all brimming with a dangerous kind of tenderness that made your body warm up. And in between those kisses, he whispered little nothings: praises, teases, threats of affection so sweet they made your toes curl.

By the time he finally pulled away, just barely, your lips were swollen, your face flushed, and your heart? Utterly, stupidly his.

“Stars above,” you mumbled, dazed and breathless. “You really do like kissing me.”

He laughed, brushing his nose against yours once more, eyes sparkling. “You’d be surprised how long I’ve been waiting to do this.”

You were going to fire back something clever—something cocky, maybe flirty—but the words fizzled out the moment his hand slipped beneath your hoodie.

Fingertips ghosted over your waist, your body shivering at how soft his hands were. The contrast of his sharp claws against your delicate skin made your spine tense, a soft gasp slipping from your parted lips—and Alastor felt it. He smirked against your mouth, already chasing another kiss before you could even process the last one. He shifted beside you, rolling slowly until he was caging you in from above with his large frame.

Teeth grazed your bottom lip, not rough—teasing. His tongue slipped past your lips, curling against yours with surprising precision, like he was memorizing the shape of your hunger. You moaned before you could stop yourself, thighs instinctively shifting beneath him. He groaned in response, low and guttural, barely restrained, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest like thunder waiting to crack open the sky.

“Dearest,” he purred, pulling back just enough to press a kiss to your chin, then your throat, then just above your collarbone. “Those little noises of yours are going to drive me mad very easily.” He pulled away for a second, looking down at you as his red locks surrounded your peripheral vision—it was just you and him in this moment. 

“Is… is this something you want?”

You felt his hand rub circles into your stomach soothingly, his eyes searching yours to make sure every bit of your being wanted him just as much as he wanted you. You can’t help but laugh at the uncharacteristic sweetness of it all, shaking your head gently beneath him. “Who would have thought the Radio Demon was so respectful in bed?”

“Why, I am a Southern gentleman after all, sweetheart!” He drawled, his smile widening at your teasing remark. “But tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll stop immediately. No matter how hard it’ll be to—quell my hunger.” He finished his sentence with a sharp nip at your neck, making you involuntarily squeak at the pinch.

You hummed, intertwining your hands into his hair. “Thank you for the concerns, but I promise this is everything I want.” 

He groaned at the way you scratched his scalp, his ears twitching from the feeling. You smirked at the starry look he gave you, his lips once more meeting yours. Your eyelids shut as you mewled into the kiss, Alastor’s hands returning to underneath your hoodie with more need. Your breath started to shorten as his hands hesitantly reached higher and higher, your chest rising and lowering faster.

His hands cupped your breasts, your thighs instinctively pushing together as you felt your head spin from the contact. You had to withdraw from the kiss, gasping for air as Alastor watched you with half-lidded eyes. He leaned down to kiss your neck instead, his fangs nibbling softly as he fondled your chest with such tenderness. You gasped when his thumbs rubbed against your nipples, and you felt Alastor grin against your skin as they peaked under his touch. 

Every caress of his sent a jolt of fire straight to your core, the heat between your legs growing. You were sure you were starting to seep through your panties, the room a thousand degrees hotter with how Alastor was groping your body. 

“You feel like sin,” he murmured against your skin, breath hot, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “I could get drunk off the heat of you alone.”

Before you could reply, Alastor removed his hands from your breasts, leaning back on his knees to pull you forward in a searing kiss. You were temporarily winded from the sudden movement, sitting up as you desperately tried to match his pace. His hands gripped the hem of your hoodie, lifting it up over your head as goosebumps littered your skin from the sudden exposure. He discarded the material somewhere off the bed, pushing you down once more as his hungry mouth met the skin of your chest.

You moaned out his name, your hands carding through his locks again as his tongue swirled around your left nipple. His thumb stimulated your right nipple in similar fashion, your eyes glazing over as you let yourself succumb to the pleasure.

His mouth detached from your mound, going lower and lower as he continued to fondle your breasts. Wet kisses were placed in a trail down your stomach, his mouth hesitating right at the top of your shorts. He glanced up at you, your core clenching at the way he locked eyes with you before pulling down your shorts and panties in one steady go.

Alastor wasted no time pulling your thighs apart, your cheeks suddenly warm at being completely exposed to him. He had you spread out like a decadent offering, laid bare before him, your body instinctively trying to fight the vulnerable position. You struggled in his grip, his strong hands holding the bottom of your thighs steady as you tried to push them together once more. Your stomach coiled in embarrassment when he took a deep breath in, his nostrils flaring at the scent of your arousal. “Alastor—”

Your complaint was lodged in your throat as your eyes landed on his expression. His pupils were blown wide, grin parted, as though the image of you—dripping, glistening with need—was something sacred. One of his hands moved to gently spread your lips, and his thumb ghosted over your clit with maddening care, pulling a soft gasp from your throat.

“My, my…” he breathed. “So wet already. And all for me.”

And then, without further warning—he devoured you.

His mouth latched onto you with terrifying precision, tongue flicking in fast, deliberate strokes against your clit while his hands gripped your thighs, keeping you pinned to the bed. The sensation was immediate—sharp, electric, almost as if a wire had been connected straight from your core to your spine. You cried out, hips bucking, but he held you, kept you right where he wanted you.

“Easy now,” he murmured against you, voice muffled but amused. “Let me take my time.”

You were soaked—and he seemed to love it, moaning softly as his tongue dipped down to taste everything. He licked up your arousal like it was nectar, slow and indulgent, before circling back to your clit and sucking, gently at first—then harder. The lewd sounds of Alastor’s mouth mixed with the faint love song crackling from the radio, your eyes rolling to the back of your head from the pleasure overwhelming your body.

Your back arched. Your hands tugged on hair behind his ears, desperate for more. He groaned when you pulled on him—deep and vibrating against your sensitive flesh. The sensation made you whimper, thighs trembling on either side of his head.

“Th-that—Alastor—fuck—” You lifted one of your arms to cover your eyes, your face burning hot from the shameful sounds Alastor was eliciting from you. 

A shadowy tendril wrapped around your wrist, pulling your forearm off of your eyes. He pulled away only briefly, his mouth slick with your juices, a feral grin splitting his lips.

“Oh darling,” he purred, voice thick, eyes gleaming. “Don’t shy away from me.”

Then he buried himself in you once more.

His tongue moved with devilish skill—flicking, circling, pressing in just the right rhythm, while his fingers slipped lower, teasing at your entrance before easing inside you. One. Then two. Slow, curling motions that had your entire body clenching around him. You felt Alastor finger you with precision, the faint reminder of his pointed nails against your walls made your head spin. He could tear you apart in an instant, and yet here he was, devoting himself to giving you nothing but pure, unadulterated pleasure.

He fucked you with his fingers and licked you like a man starved—like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted. He’d groan when you moaned. Chuckle darkly when you cursed. Murmur “that’s it, my sweet, give in” when your hips started grinding against his mouth.

You were unraveling—gasping, writhing, begging for something you couldn’t name. The pressure was building exponentially, and you could barely form a thought beyond more more please don’t stop—

And he didn’t.

He knew. He felt the way your body tensed, the way your cries grew higher, the way your legs tried to close around his head—he pressed his free hand to your stomach, grounding you, keeping you open and his.

“Come for me, chère,” he whispered into your skin, voice thick and reverent. “Let me taste it.”

His words pushed you over the edge, snapping the invisible rubber band inside your stomach. You shattered with a cry, your orgasm hitting you like a storm, thighs trembling violently as your entire body curved off the bed. Alastor held you through it, lapping up every drop, groaning with delight as he worked you through the high with soft, slow licks until you were twitching, sensitive, your hands weakly trying to push him away. 

“Al—Alastor, too much,” You whimpered pathetically, your hands softly pushing him away from your overstimulated core. He finally pulled back, chin dripping with a mix of his saliva and your wetness, eyes black and gleaming.

And he smiled.

That big, sharp, genuine smile.

“So sweet,” he sighed, voice dreamy as he kissed your trembling thigh. “I could gorge myself on you for hours and still crave more, dearest.”

You were too blissed out to answer—just a panting, whimpering mess beneath him.

He crawled up your body slowly, pressing soft kisses to your stomach, your ribs, your chest. And when he finally reached your lips again, he kissed you with the same mouth that had just ruined you—and you didn’t even hesitate to return it.

You could taste yourself on him.

Alastor cradled your face in his hand, brushing your sweaty hair back gently, his voice a soft murmur against your lips. “Still with me, ma douce?” 

His voice vibrated against your lips, his hands coming up to his neck to quickly unbutton his shirt. His hands moved with practiced accuracy, your body still regaining strength from your orgasm. You glanced down at the strain in his slacks, your mouth watering at the sight of just how badly he needed relief. Withdrawing only enough to stand at the foot of the bed, he dragged his belt open with a snap that made your stomach flip.

“You’ll tell me if it’s too much, won’t you?” he asked, even as he slid his trousers down his hips, freeing himself.

You nodded instantly, but your breath caught in your throat once your gaze landed on his member. He was long. Thick. Already dripping at the tip from how hard he was, how worked up you’d made him just from tasting you. His cock curved slightly upward, pulsing with anticipation as he crawled back over you, guiding himself to your entrance with one slow, grinding drag of his tip along your still-sensitive folds.

“Alastor, stop teasing.” You hissed as he continued brushing the head of his cock against your wet slit. A deep hum of amusement escaped his chest, his eyes fluttering shut as he relished the way your lips invited him in.

When he pushed in—it was slow. Torturously slow. Stretching you inch by inch, making your mouth fall open with a sound that bordered on a sob. You were still so aroused, your walls fluttering, clenching down on him as he eased deeper.

“Ohhh, fuck—” you gasped, legs trembling.

Alastor groaned—really groaned—his voice breaking for just a moment as your warmth enveloped him fully. You clenched around him as he hissed out your name like a prayer.

“You feel—divine,” he growled, his composure splintering as his hips finally pressed flush against yours. “Like you were made to take me.”

He stayed there for a moment buried to the hilt, before pulling back and thrusting in again with a force that made your body jolt up the bed. The rhythm started hard and deep—slow but intentional, like he was trying to imprint himself into every inch of you. There was no frantic rutting, no careless pace. Every thrust was a symphony of tension and release. Your moans came unbidden, rising with every grind of his hips, every brush of his pelvis against your overstimulated clit.

And Alastor loved it.

He drank up your reactions as if it were ambrosia, glowing red eyes fixed on your face, on the way you gasped and cried out, on the way your nails clawed at his back. Your sounds were music to his ears, your blissed out expression making his dick twitch. You looked thoroughly fucked, Alastor’s chest swelling with pride as he felt his antlers start to grow ever so slowly. You bucked beneath him, hips grinding up to meet his thrusts, and he groaned again—sharper this time. The sound shot straight through you, and your hands flew to his hair, yanking him down into another kiss that had your teeth clashing, your tongues tangling.

“This pussy—fuck,” he mewled into your mouth, “this perfect little pussy—clinging to me like she doesn’t want me to leave.”

His voice was fraying now, strained, unraveling at the edges. “Is that it, darling?” he rasped, still kissing you between words. “You want me to stay right here? Fill you until you can’t think?”

“Y-yes—please, don’t stop, Alastor—”

One hand suddenly snaked beneath your thigh, grabbing one of your legs and hooking it over his shoulder. The angle changed—oh God, the angle changed!—and you cried out, your back arching as he hit deeper, harder, grinding against that sweet, devastating spot inside you that had you seeing stars.

“There,” he smirked, voice low and breathless. “There it is.”

He continued to pound into you until you were sobbing his name, clutching the sheets, tears brimming in your lashes from the sheer overwhelm of it. Alastor's smile turned feral as he saw your tears, his pace faltering as he kissed your tears as they fell.

“My beautiful girl,” he whispered, soft between the pounding thrusts. “So good for me. Taking me so well. You were meant for this. Meant for me.”

You whimpered at his praises, cumming again without warning—your body locking up, your orgasm ripping through you like a wave breaking against stone. Alastor groaned at the feeling of you clenching around him, pulsing, twitching, milking him as he drove in deep one final time.

He buried himself to the hilt and came with a growl—deep, guttural, almost animalistic—his cock twitching as he filled you, spilling inside you with a heat that made your thighs quiver. You felt him pulse inside you, bury himself deeper, hips twitching with the last few, slow thrusts.

Alastor collapsed beside you with a sigh that was more satisfied than smug for once, his arm immediately curling around your waist to tug you flush against him. His skin was slick with sweat, his breath still uneven, but his smile—that damned smile—was gentler now. Calmer. Like some longing ache inside him had finally eased.

The two of you lay there in silence for a moment, your body still twitching with the occasional aftershock as your breath steadied. Your face nuzzled into the crook of his neck, warm and safe as your hands gently played with the soft fur of his chest. He sighed at the feeling, inhaling deeply as he relaxed.

Then, with absolutely zero shame in his tone, he spoke.

“So,” he drawled lazily, voice low and playful, “did I cure your hangover?”

You tensed, lifting your head just enough to blink at him, eyes wide and incredulous. You paused for a moment to focus on your head, realizing your headache was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, laughter flowed out of you, your head thrown back as you giggled at his question—of course he still remembered.

“You know what…” you breathed, grinning at him like he’d just said the funniest thing. “Surprisingly, you did.”

Alastor chuckled, eyes glittering with delight. He merely leaned down to kiss your forehead, brushing away the hair stuck to your forehead. Cuddling closer, you dropped your head once more to the crook of his neck, his fingers stroking lazy circles on your back, and the silence that followed was heavy with comfort. After a pause, you tilted your head to glance up at him again.

“...Did you get me drunk because you knew I’d kiss you?”

Alastor gasped dramatically at your questioning. Hand pressed to his chest, all mock offense and theatrical flourish. “Oh contraire, chérie!” he insisted. “I was trying to get us both drunk so I could confess my affections for you—never did I expect you to do something so scandalous.” 

He paused, grin widening into its usual smirk. “But alas, it ended in my favor… so I must thank you for it.”

You groaned into his shoulder, rolling your eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

He laughed—a full, rich sound that rumbled against your cheek as he kissed the top of your head once more.

“Perhaps,” he whispered. “But I’m your idiot now.”

tag list: @railgunuzi @frompiscium @rose-in-blue @catticora @milkissesx + @lovingyeet @flannychan @ari-hatake24 [want to join/be removed from the tag list? check my pinned post!]

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Under Neon Lights

bob floyd x fem!aviator!reader

call sign: Whiskey

The bass was already hitting before they even got out of the Uber.

It thumped through the pavement, up their legs, like a second heartbeat under the streetlights. The whole squad piled out of the SUV, laughter spilling into the night. It was hot, humid, coastal air clinging to their skin, the kind that stuck to your clothes in all the right (and wrong) places.

Phoenix was the first out, pulling the door open with a grin. “If anyone leaves sober, I’m disowning you.”

Fanboy climbed out after her with a snort. “If I go missing, check the DJ booth.”

Payback pointed at him. “No, check the bar. That’s where your heart lives.”

Then came Bob—tall, quiet, awkward as hell in his fitted navy button-down and clean jeans, adjusting his glasses and scanning the building like he was about to walk into a mission briefing.

And then there was you—Whiskey—last one out.

You swung your legs out slow, like you knew every single person was already watching. Hair down. Lip gloss shimmering. Tight black dress that hugged your hips and stopped mid-thigh. Heels loud on the concrete as you stepped forward, eyes gleaming under the city lights.

Bob looked up at the sound of your heels and nearly forgot how to breathe.

Cyclone had approved a rare Friday night leave for all of you after a brutal round of training simulations, and you’d picked the club—a slightly off-the-radar, neon-lit spot downtown with just enough grime to feel cool and just enough glitter to feel dangerous.

The bouncer looked you all over—first with suspicion, then with a grin.

“Y’all Navy?” he asked, cocking his head.

Hangman clapped a hand to Bob’s shoulder and smirked. “You could say that.”

The velvet rope dropped.

Inside, the club pulsed—dim lights flickering pink, purple, gold. The bar to the left glowed like a spaceship, rows of bottles catching light as the bartenders moved like magicians. The dance floor was packed, hips grinding, drinks spilling, music vibrating through every surface. A full sensual hum of bass and breath and heat.

Phoenix whistled low. “Okay, okay. She doesn’t look like much outside, but she’s a whole mood in here.”

“Right?” you smirked, tugging her hand. “Come on. First round’s on me.”

Hangman muttered under his breath, “If this ends in a conga line, I’m out.”

The crew split naturally—Fanboy and Payback made a beeline for the bar to order drinks with way too much liquor and way too little class. Phoenix leaned into you, the two of you laughing as you started naming songs you wanted to hear. Your hips were already swaying before you made it to the bar. Music was your oxygen tonight.

Bob hovered by the edge of the group, a quiet current in a storm, eyes locked on you—how easily you moved, how alive you looked under colored lights, like you belonged in a music video or a fever dream.

“Whatcha drinkin’, Whiskey?” Phoenix yelled over the bass.

“Tequila and trouble,” you shot back with a wink.

Bob nearly choked on his own breath.

You turned toward him, as if you’d felt his eyes on you, and smiled softly. “You gonna stand there all night, Floyd, or are you gonna come get corrupted?”

His mouth opened. Closed. Then opened again.

“I—I’m coming,” he stammered.

Hangman barked a laugh. “Not yet, I hope.”

You tossed your head back laughing. “Down, cowboy.”

Everyone grabbed drinks, shots, cocktails, beers. Toasts clinked. Someone shouted something about “to bad decisions” and Fanboy tried to start a chant that flopped so hard you all had to pretend it never happened.

Then—the DJ shifted tracks.

You knew it within five seconds.

You shrieked, “PHOENIX—IT’S PINK PONY CLUB!”

“Oh shit!” Phoenix screamed, slamming her shot glass down.

And like that, you were gone. Glasses abandoned, drinks forgotten, you both grabbed each other’s hands and hit the dance floor. You were singing every word at full volume, twirling under the strobes, laughing so hard you nearly fell.

Phoenix shouted to Hangman as she danced past, “Try to keep up, Texas!”

“Not with you two!” he shouted back. “You’ve got main character syndrome!”

Back at the table, Bob watched it all unfold like a man possessed.

You in that dress. You lit up. You singing every line to a glitter-pop anthem like you wrote it yourself. You locking eyes with him mid-chorus, tongue poking out between your teeth, daring him without a word.

He took a long sip of his drink and thought, Heaven help me.

You were just getting started.

———

The lights dimmed just a little deeper.

The beat slowed down.

That soft, sensual guitar riff slid through the speakers like honey. The kind of sound that curled low in your spine and made you sway before you even realized you were moving. And when Romeo Santos whispered the first line, you turned around slowly like you already knew the next chapter of your night had just arrived.

Hangman clocked it instantly. “Oh no.”

You grinned, stalking toward him with the dangerous confidence of a woman who knew what she was doing.

“Oh yes,” you purred.

“Whiskey,” he warned. “I don’t know how to dance to this. This is like… forbidden fruit music.”

“Then consider this your crash course,” you said, grabbing him by the hand. “C’mon, cowboy. I’ll lead.”

“You always do,” he muttered under his breath.

You dragged him onto the dance floor just as Usher’s verse slid in, and he stood there stiffly for a second like he was preparing for a goddamn duel.

“Relax,” you said, stepping in close—closer than close. Your palm landed gently on his shoulder, guiding him. “It’s just three steps. And hips. Always the hips.”

“I have hips,” he said, sounding personally offended.

“Prove it.”

You swayed.

He followed, stiff as a board, and you burst into laughter. “Oh my God, you move like a tax form.”

“Ma’am, this is harassment.”

“This is bachata,” you said, “and you’re doing it with me, so shut up and move your hips.”

Slowly, painfully, he started to get it. You led with subtle, practiced rhythm, rolling your hips just enough to make it dangerous. The beat was slow, romantic, every movement a suggestion instead of a shout. Your hands moved—up his arm, across his shoulder, back down again, always in time with the music.

And then you flipped it—your back to him, his hand on your hip.

He audibly swallowed.

“This feels illegal,” he whispered into your ear.

“Only if you’re doing it right,” you murmured, rocking your hips back into him.

Hangman froze. Fully froze.

You laughed and reached back to grab his hand. “Don’t lock up on me, Texas. Move with me.”

By the time the chorus hit, he’d stopped thinking. You had him—completely in your rhythm, moving like his bones belonged to you. A hand on your hip, the other brushing your arm, breath hot at your neck. He kept messing up the steps, but you didn’t care. He was trying. And he was sweating.

You leaned in and whispered, “You’re a little heavy on the lead, Lieutenant.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I’m not used to dancing like this.”

“No one is. That’s why it works.”

And God, it worked.

By the time the song faded out, Hangman looked like he’d just run a marathon. His hair was sticking to his forehead. His eyes were wide. You turned around slowly, chest to chest, face inches from his, and grinned.

“Well?”

Hangman didn’t answer right away.

He just staggered off the dance floor, shoulders loose, lips parted, breathing like he needed a defibrillator. He got halfway back to the table where Bob, Payback, and Fanboy were watching with drinks in hand before he turned back and said—

“What the fuck? I’m never dancing bachata again. It was too much.”

Fanboy spit beer.

Payback howled.

Bob? Bob looked like he was experiencing a medical event.

Because the whole time Hangman had been struggling through that dance, Bob had been picturing himself in his place—your hips, your hands, your laugh, all pressed against someone else. And now that image was seared into his skull.

And the worst part? You looked even hotter walking off that dance floor, flushed and smiling, dress clinging to every curve like it had something to say.

Bob downed half his drink and prayed.

Hangman had barely recovered from his bachata-induced near-death experience when the speakers shifted again—this time, snapping into a sharp, punchy beat that practically demanded a comeback.

Phoenix grinned.

You turned to her like you were psychic.

“Oh hell yes,” you both said at the same time.

“New Rules.”

“I’ll get us shots,” Payback offered quickly, fully aware of what was about to happen.

Fanboy was already screaming. “OH THEY’RE ABOUT TO GET STUPID WITH IT—SOMEBODY GET A CAMERA.”

You didn’t even look back. You and Phoenix locked eyes, nodded like it was a military maneuver, and hit the floor hard—boots stomping, hips snapping, hair flying. It wasn’t sexy the way Promise had been. This was commanding. Sharp. Confident. Bitchy in the best way.

You knew every lyric.

So did she.

And together? Y’all were untouchable.

“I got new rules, I count ‘em—

One, don’t pick up the phone—”

You pointed at each other like backup dancers in formation. Phoenix spun, hair whipping around her shoulders as she mouthed every word. You dropped into a low shimmy, one hand dragging slowly down your body like a slow clap for your own damn self. The people around you started cheering.

Even the DJ hyped it.

Bob watched with his jaw slack, eyes laser-focused on you like you were some kind of divine punishment sent from heaven to wreck his life in real time.

Because God help him, when you danced like this—with that much joy, that much power, like the entire damn club was your personal runway—he couldn’t even breathe.

Fanboy leaned over. “She’s doing that on purpose.”

“I know,” Bob said quietly.

“She’s killing you.”

“I know.”

Payback slid in next to him. “This is like watching someone flirt by stepping on your throat.”

“I KNOW.”

You grabbed Phoenix’s hand and spun her under your arm like y’all were in a music video, then bumped hips dramatically as you shouted the chorus together—

“I gotta tell them to myself—

DON’T GET UNDER HIM!!”

You were laughing, singing, stomping, alive, and it was contagious. A group of girls joined you on the floor. Even a couple of guys followed your lead. It was a damn movement. You and Phoenix were at the center of it—two fighter pilots fully locked into your off-duty, out-of-uniform, hot girl night out energy.

The song ended in chaos.

Screaming. Clapping. One random girl hugged you and Phoenix like y’all had just saved her from her ex.

You stumbled back to the table, glowing and breathless, and collapsed onto the seat next to Bob.

“You good?” you asked, winking.

He didn’t answer at first. Just blinked slowly like someone rebooting after a blackout.

“…Fine.”

Your smirk turned dangerous.

“You sure? You look a little flushed.”

He was going to combust.

But before he could answer, the DJ clicked something low and filthy into the speakers.

The lights in the club shifted.

Dimmed low.

Tinted red.

Velvet and sin.

And then—

“You make it look like it’s magic…”

You froze mid-laugh.

Phoenix clutched your forearm with a gasp. “Oh my god.”

You looked at her.

She looked at you.

Fanboy looked between you both and whispered, “Uh oh.”

“Cause I see nobody, nobody but you…”

Phoenix started shaking your arm. “Please.”

“No.”

“Please, I’m begging.”

You were already smiling. “Phoenix—”

“Whiskey,” she said in full government tone. “Give me this.”

Bob’s mouth was dry.

Payback was suddenly on the edge of his seat. “Wait, wait, wait, is this happening—”

Phoenix stood and shouted, hands cupped around her mouth:

“ONE SOLO. THAT’S ALL I’M ASKING.”

People nearby turned. The group of girls who danced with you earlier screamed like they’d been waiting for this exact moment their whole lives.

You sipped your drink with faux innocence and turned toward Bob, voice sweet:

“You mind?”

He blinked. “Huh?”

“Phoenix wants a show.”

Bob opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Swallowed hard.

Phoenix shoved your drink out of your hand and dragged you to your feet before you could change your mind.

“You’re a menace,” you hissed at her as she pulled you to the middle of the floor.

“And you’re the main character,” she said proudly. “Go ruin someone’s life.”

“Girl you’re perfect… you’re always worth it…”

You started slow.

Hips swaying, back turned to the table. Hands sliding down the curves of your body like you were setting a fire only you could survive. You danced like honey off the comb—sweet, sensual, dangerous if taken too fast.

Bob was not breathing.

You turned your head just enough to catch him watching.

Frozen. Blushing. Swallowing hard.

“You earned it…”

Your hands lifted above your head. Eyes half-lidded, a little smile playing at your lips. You moved like the song had seeped under your skin—like temptation given form. Your fingers traced a lazy line down your neck, chest, hips. Every movement deliberate. Languid. Intimate.

The room around you blurred.

It wasn’t about the crowd.

It was about him.

And he knew it.

“On that lonely night…”

You turned toward him fully. Walked.

The crowd parted instinctively. Even Phoenix stepped back like she knew something sacred was about to go down.

Bob’s eyes widened as you sauntered closer.

You stopped right in front of him.

Bent just enough to whisper in his ear—

“I like when you look at me like that.”

He made a quiet, strangled sound that did things to your spine.

You pulled back, smirking.

Straightened.

Walked away before you could see his soul leave his body.

Phoenix screamed, “WHISKEY!!” and collapsed into the booth like she’d been tackled.

Payback stood up and fanned himself with a napkin.

Fanboy fell off the couch.

Bob hadn’t blinked in two full minutes.

You slid back into your seat like nothing happened.

Picked up your drink.

Took a sip.

Bob still hadn’t moved.

You leaned toward him and purred, “You doing okay, Lieutenant?”

His hand gripped the edge of the table like he was trying not to levitate.

“…Fine.”

———

The DJ fades into the next track — Neighbors Know My Name — and the booth erupts.

Phoenix throws her head back laughing. “Oh hell yes!” she yells, pounding the table like a judge handing down a sentence. “WHISKEY, PERFORMANCE. NOW.”

Fanboy nearly chokes on his drink. “This is not a drill—this is the horny Hunger Games!”

You stand without a word, just smirking, already moving toward Bob with purpose.

He’s stiff in the booth, hands gripping the edge like he’s bracing for impact.

You straddle him.

Dead silence at the table. Payback whispers, “He’s not surviving this.”

The first lyric hits:

“Soon as we get started making love, goin’ hard I hear a…

(Knock knock) knock knock, knock on the wall.”

Your hips roll against him, slow and controlled, dragging your hands up his chest like you’re carving your name into him.

Bob’s head drops back, a sharp exhale punching out of him.

“And as soon as I go deep, gettin’ it in then again

There goes the (knock knock) knock knock, knock on the wall.”

You mouth the words right in his ear, breath hot, your fingers threading through his hair while your hips grind a slow, relentless rhythm against him.

Bob groans — loud.

The table reacts like a sports bar watching a Hail Mary pass.

Fanboy stands and shouts, “REF! I’M CALLING A TIMEOUT! SHE’S KILLING HIM!”

Phoenix is doubled over, pounding the table again. “SHE’S LITERALLY ENDING HIS BLOODLINE.”

“Bet the neighbors know my name, They be stressin’ while we sexin’”

You whisper the line, and Bob shudders.

You lean back, still on him, your hands on your thighs now, chest heaving as you move to the music like you were born for this exact moment.

“Girl the love we make, gone keep banging on the wall”

Phoenix throws a fry at Fanboy. “Put your tongue back in your mouth.”

“I CAN’T,” Fanboy yells. “I THINK I SAW HEAVEN.”

Bob grabs your waist now — tightly — and for a second, his lips almost crash into yours.

But you pull back, teasing, smirking. “You haven’t earned that yet.”

The table groans in sync.

Payback: “Okay but like… I’m a little in love with her too now.”

———

You hear the beat first — a deep dembow, hips-first kind of rhythm — and immediately your whole posture changes. The sway in your walk turns hypnotic. You’re not teasing anymore.

You’re showing off now.

Fanboy sees your face and literally gasps. “Oh no. Oh no. I know that look. That’s a heritage unlock.”

Payback holds up a napkin like a white flag. “I surrender. I can’t handle what’s coming.”

Phoenix leans back like she’s watching the climax of a telenovela. “Y’all. Watch this.”

You turn to Bob, lifting a single brow. “Can you keep up?”

He swallows. “I can try.”

You pull him to his feet like he’s being summoned by a goddess. The music crashes in fully — the percussion pounding, the lyrics fast, raw, spicy. You don’t just dance to this.

You embody it.

You roll your hips, fast and tight, your hands sliding along your waist as you move like you were born in the music. Bob’s behind you now — both of you dancing together, the heat between your bodies blazing.

The lyrics fly:

“Tú me pones mal, baby, con ese cuerpo criminal…”

You drop it low. He stutters. You throw your arm back and wrap it around his neck, winding your hips against him.

Bob’s jaw is clenched, knuckles white on your waist.

Fanboy is straight-up praying at the table. “Santa María, Madre de Dios—”

Phoenix smacks him. “SHUT UP AND LET HER COOK.”

You spin in Bob’s arms and let the beat take you — chest to chest, lips inches apart, and then…

You mouth the next lyric right at his lips, eyes dark, heat dripping from every syllable:

“Tú y yo no somos santos… pero eso es lo que me encanta.”

The tension’s nuclear now. His hands are everywhere — waist, hips, back — like he doesn’t know where to touch first, but he knows he can’t stop.

You’re a whole storm in a black dress.

And he’s drowning beautifully.

———

The lights dim just slightly. A familiar guitar riff slides into the speakers.

The gasps are immediate.

The beginning of “Ella y Yo” echoes through the club.

Phoenix goes, “No—NO. Don’t even think about it.”

You and Fanboy rise in sync from your chairs like you’ve rehearsed this for Broadway.

Whiskey’s jaw is tight, eyes narrowed.

Fanboy’s shaking his head, already pacing in a circle like he’s about to defend himself in court.

The squad? Losing it. Payback has tears forming already.

WHISKEY (storming forward, intense):

“Y te repito, lucha por amor…”

FANBOY (pointing a finger, defensive):

“No me aconsejes en tu posición.”

WHISKEY (mocking):

“Quizás su marido no mande en su corazón.”

FANBOY (louder now):

“No sabes quién es víctima en esta confusión!”

WHISKEY (arms flung wide, voice breaking):

“¡No seas tan tonto, lucha por amor!”

FANBOY (pacing in a full circle):

“No, no me aconsejes en tu posición.”

WHISKEY:

“Quizás ese tipo no mande en su corazón.”

FANBOY (stepping in close):

“Tú no sabes quién es víctima en esta confusión.”

You both pause.

The beat swells.

And then—

⸻

FANBOY (quiet, almost regretful):

“Amigo pido perdón, yo nunca te fallé…”

He grips an imaginary rosary as he continues:

“Me traicionaron las ganas de volverla a ver…”

WHISKEY is glaring, pacing behind him like a betrayed lover.

FANBOY (emotional):

“Y aunque todavía no puedo creer… lo que este amargo encuentro me hizo comprender…”

He turns to you with raw pain in his voice:

“Pues tú también llegaste a ese lugar…”

“Donde tantas veces yo la fui a buscar…”

Phoenix screams, “OH MY GODDDD!”

FANBOY (fully yelling now):

“Y aunque no es fácil lo que voy a hacer…”

“Admitiré que salí con tu mujer.”

⸻

WHISKEY (eyes wide):

“…¿QUÉ?!”

TOGETHER:

“Salí con tu mujer!

Salí con tu mujer!

Salí con tu mujer!”

The dance floor erupts. People are clapping, hooting, and a couple of strangers even join the dramatics like it’s a flash mob.

WHISKEY (gritted teeth, biting out every word):

“Que te perdone Dios, yo no lo voy a hacer…”

“Los perdí a los dos y a la misma vez…”

She spins, grabbing a beer bottle off the table like it’s a fake Oscar trophy.

“Ya veo que todo era mentira cuando ella me decía…”

“Que se iba pa’ Puerto Rico a vacaciones con su amiga…”

Fanboy winces.

Payback is curled in a ball, laughing.

“Me mintió, tú y ella en una cama, allá en Bayamón…”

“Quizás en Isla Verde o Carolina, ¡cuántos hoteles ensució!”

WHISKEY (pointing directly in Fanboy’s face):

“TÚ TAMBIÉN. LOS ODIO A LOS DOS!”

⸻

FANBOY (suddenly soft):

“(No me entiendes…)”

He clutches his chest.

“Que yo, soy quien más sufro con todo esto…”

“Me mata el dolor…”

“Fue una traición…”

“Perdí un amigo por la tentación…”

“…Perdón.”

He lowers his eyes and breathes the last word like a dagger:

“…Adiós.”

⸻

Silence.

Phoenix chokes on her drink.

The table is dead quiet.

The lights pulse purple, pink, and gold. The air’s thick with sweat, laughter, and the scent of overpriced tequila. Phones are still out, people still hollering from the last performance—“¡Eso fue una novela, carajo!”

But the DJ—cheeky bastard that he is—knows exactly what to do next.

The club falls silent for half a beat.

Then:

🎶 “Si te invito a una copa y me acerco a tu boca…” 🎶

The first strum of Romeo Santos’ “Propuesta Indecente” slides over the speakers like silk.

Whiskey gasps. Fanboy’s already backing up, laughing.

“No. Nooo. We just got out of a scandal—”

Too late. She grabs his wrist and drags him back to the floor, hips already rolling with the beat, that devilish grin on her lips.

WHISKEY (singing, seductive, almost whispering):

“Si te invito a una copa y me acerco a tu boca…”

“Si te robo un besito, a ver, ¿te enojas conmigo?”

Fanboy groans—playfully tortured. “You’re going to get me killed.”

FANBOY (singing, overly dramatic):

“¿Qué dirías si esta noche te seduzco en mi coche…”

“Que se empañen los vidrios y la regla es que goces?”

Their hips are already locked. Whiskey’s hands slide slowly up Fanboy’s chest. She spins, her back to him again, grinding low—

WHISKEY (teasing, turning her head over her shoulder):

“Si te falto el respeto y luego culpo al alcohol…”

“Si levanto tu falda, ¿me darías el derecho…”

FANBOY:

“…A medir tu sensatez?”

“Poner en juego tu cuerpo…”

“Si te parece prudente…”

BOTH (in sync, sultry as hell):

“Esta propuesta indecente…”

Phoenix SCREAMS and nearly knocks over her drink. Payback falls out of his seat. Even Bob chokes, eyes locked on Whiskey as her body moves like the music is built into her bones.

🎶 “Permíteme apreciar tu desnudez… (take it off)”

“Relájate…”

“Que este Martini calmará tu timidez…” (don’t be shy) 🎶

Whiskey whispers the words as she drapes herself over Fanboy, her hands slipping into his hair. He plays along, leaning into it—committed to the bit like a true drama kid.

WHISKEY (in his ear, breath hot):

“Y una aventura es más divertida…”

“Si huele a peligro…”

FANBOY (responding, grinning wide):

“Si te invito a una copa y me acerco a tu boca…”

“Si te robo un besito, a ver, ¿te enojas conmigo?”

WHISKEY (face inches from his):

“¿Qué dirías si esta noche te seduzco en mi coche?”

“Que se empañen los vidrios y la regla es que goces…”

They sway. They grind. They turn the dance floor into satin sin. People are filming. Couples are making out in the shadows. The vibe is unholy and unstoppable.

🎶 “I’m back…”

“It feels good to be king…”

“Gostoso…”

“Hey…”

“Listen, I know what you like…” 🎶

Fanboy raises a brow. “This you?”

WHISKEY (mock-serious, with a wink):

“How ‘bout if you and I, me and you—bailamos bachata…”

She pulls him into another spin, now dragging the front of his shirt toward her.

WHISKEY (singing):

“¿Terminamo’ en la cama?”

(She grins, mouthing: “que rico.”)

FANBOY:

“How ‘bout if you and I, me and you…”

“¿Bailamos bachata?”

She lets him spin her out, then drags herself back into him, hips never stopping.

BOTH (loud, laughing, drenched in sweat):

“¿Terminamos en la cama?”

And they do it again. And again. And again. Until the whole club is either chanting along or begging them to get a room.

———

The bass drops like a body in the dark.

Whiskey turns slowly on her heel, drink in hand.  the second she hears the track change—

She grins.

🎶 “Come and ride on me like the waves…”

Bob looks up from the table. She’s already walking toward him.

🎶 “I flip the pages ’cause I wrote the book on the way…”

“Whiskey,” he starts—warning? prayer? plea?—but she’s climbing right into his lap before he can finish the word.

One knee on each side. Body flush against his. Hands resting on his shoulders like she owns the air around him.

🎶 “How to sex you up, sex you up…”

She rolls her hips once, slow enough to be dangerous. His hands fly to her waist like instinct.

🎶 “We can do it like I’m on the stage, we’ll have an audience…”

He’s not breathing.

She mouths it against his ear—

“Baby, I’ll show you the way that I sex you up…”

He groans so softly it’s almost a whimper.

She leans in, soft and close enough to kiss—but doesn’t.

Instead, she whispers, “I’m not done with you yet.”

🎶 “Baby, just stay comfortable / I want you as you are…”

Bob swallows hard. “I don’t think I’m gonna make it.”

🎶 “Let’s not get emotional / Let’s be who we are…”

She smiles sweetly. “Then don’t.”

🎶 “Keep your eyes closed ’til I roll through…”

Her hips roll again—lazy, slow, torturous.

🎶 “Somebody splittin’ your knees / Don’t worry, that’s me…”

Phoenix, Fanboy, Payback—they’re all frozen, pretending to drink or talk, pretending not to watch a public meltdown happen in real time.

Bob’s flushed. Breathing hard. Wholly undone.

🎶 “Baby, you ain’t gotta tell me what you want…”

———

The song winds down—

Usher’s last moaned lyric disappearing into the thud of the next beat. Bob looks wrecked. Flushed. Eyes heavy. Still gripping the edge of his seat like it’s the only thing tethering him to the floor.

Whiskey leans in one last time, her nose brushing his jaw, lips warm with tequila and trouble.

“Be right back,” she hums.

And just like that, she’s sliding off his lap—slowly, cruelly, like she knows exactly what kind of hell she’s leaving him in—and saunters off toward the bar.

Phoenix exhales hard. Fanboy whispers, “She did all that on a remix. God help us if the DJ ever plays ‘Wicked Games.’”

Bob’s hands are still in his lap. Fists clenched. He watches Whiskey disappear into the crowd, hips swaying with the same rhythm she used to ruin him.

He stands up.

The bartender is wiping down the counter when Whiskey slides into the empty space. She taps twice on the counter. “One more of whatever that cherry cinnamon thing was—”

“Whiskey.”

She turns.

Bob’s behind her. Eyes still dark, voice rougher than she’s ever heard it. He steps close—too close. One arm on the bar next to her, the other on her waist like he can’t stop himself anymore.

“Uh… you kinda need to stop,” Bob says, voice a little breathless, like he’s trying to keep it together but failing.

Whiskey blinks, surprised. “Wait. Did I just embarrass you?”

He scrambles for words, cheeks burning hotter. “Yeah. Kind of. But… not exactly the way you’d expect.”

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” Whiskey says softly, the teasing edge melting away as guilt colors her tone. She bites her lip, suddenly aware of the heat radiating between them.

Then, almost without thinking, Bob reaches out, capturing her hand and sliding it down—right to where his body tells a very different story than his shy words.

Whiskey freezes, wide-eyed. Her breath catches, heart skipping. “Oh. OH!” she says, voice hushed but daring. “Well… do you want to go home and fix that?”

Bob’s eyes darken with something playful and a little dangerous. “Nope,” he says, lips curling into a smirk. “I think I wanna suffer a little more.”

Whiskey grins, the kind of wicked smile that promises trouble. “Kinky,” she purrs.

The bar noise melts away around them. For a moment, it’s just the two of them—caught between fire and ice, and neither willing to back down.

[sweetheartspence]

planetary alignment - s.r

spencer was expecting a day of solitude researching in the library during his day off, not... whatever that was.

pairings: spencer reid x librarian!reader

genre: fluff? i think

cw: swearing, fem reader, not proofread

word count: 1.4k

a/n: this is my first spencer fic! constructive criticism is welcome, please feel free to share your thoughts! this one is third person but i'd like to try out second as well :) dividers by @cafekitsune ! thank you!

Spencer Reid does not believe in love at first sight.

Lust, sure. Infatuation, perhaps. But love?

Love was a whole other problem, an equation he knew by heart and yet had never been able to pinpoint.

It had fascinated him for years, and still did, if he was being quite honest. He's got sticky notes pressed into romance novels, quotes of descriptions underlined and highlighted, Jane Austen and Emily Bronte lining his shelves. He'd long learnt to stop asking about it. Even though it was out of pure fascination, of the drive for learning, people tended to see it as pathetic, as him grasping towards something he would never have. One too many times, he asked, "How do you know if you're in love?" And one too many times, he was met with a fond, exasperated, somewhat condescending smile.

"You just know."

You just know. What a stupid response. That's the kind of response you get from people who aren't educated enough to articulate themselves properly, Spencer thought. Or maybe they thought it was funny, to leave him in the dark. One thing that they understood that he never would. Something that they could have a leg up on, something that they could hold over his head when he had rattled off one too many statistics.

Or maybe it was him, who was too stupid to understand.

And Spencer has learned to be okay with that. It's not like he doesn't have enough to worry about, enough interests to pore over and obsess about and keep him occupied. And that's exactly what he intended to spend his weekend off on: the conceptual mathematics of the planetary system, developed by 16th and 17th century astronomer Johannes Kepler.

Now, Spencer doesn't consider this an obscure topic, per se, but it certainly isn't one that people were tripping over themselves to check books out about at the library. Which means that he's once again found himself in an abandoned aisle of the non-fiction section of the city library, leafing through a somewhat untouched biography. There's a thick layer of dust adorning the cover, and his long, thin fingers run down the pages, marking his progress through the book. And that's when he hears it.

A sneeze, followed by a loud bang, a soft curse, and some unintelligible muttering.

Spencer's curiosity is instantly piqued. A sneeze is nothing to be concerned about in the dusty shelves of the library, but the crash that had followed certainly was. He tentatively makes his way to the end of the aisle, poking his head around the corner.

Sitting on the ground, surrounded by a pile of books, is a woman. Her hair is pushed off her face with a pair of glasses, and she is haphazardly stacking the books, muttering something about how the government needed to reallocate resources and funds. Next to her lays a broken stepstool. Spencer's heart immediately starts to beat faster. She's pretty, even if her eyebrows are currently pinched in a frown.

She looks up at the noise of Spencer's footsteps, and her cheeks instantly color with embarrassment. She hops up from the ground, dusting off her hands on her pants, and offers him an apologetic smile. "I'm so sorry. The stepstool broke right under me. It was a faulty hinge, I think, or the screw might have been rusted..." She trails off, crouching down again to examine the stepstool.

Spencer isn't quite sure why he's still standing here. He's found the source of the noise, determined that no one was hurt, and that no one needs his help. So why can't he force his feet to move? Or his mouth to form words?

The woman looks up again, her cheeks still colored at the realization that he hasn't moved. "Uh- I'm sorry. Am I in your way, or...?" She trails off again, looking adorably confused.

Spencer snaps out of his daze. "No! No, I just- I heard the noise, and I wanted to- to make sure no one was hurt, or needed help, and honestly, I hadn't even realized that anyone else was in this section, considering it's at the back of the library and no one even really comes back here, unless they're looking for something specific, or-"

She cuts him off with a soft laugh. The most beautiful sound he's ever heard, he thinks, and quickly snaps his mouth shut. Now it's his turn to blush.

"Were you, then?" She asks, quirking an eyebrow. She's looking at him with a certain look in her eye, interest, maybe, or fascination, or maybe amusement. He can't quite tell. But she's looking at him, her full attention on his face, her gaze fixed to his eyes. There's a small smile playing at her lips. He finds that he doesn't care what she's looking at him with, as long as she keeps looking at him.

"Was I... was I what?" Spencer asks, a bit stupidly. His brain feels a bit like mush.

"Looking for something specific," she clarifies, tilting her head, flashing him a real smile. Spencer finds he can't breathe for a moment. He holds up the book he had been reading.

"Oh! Uh, yeah," he manages, nodding. "Kepler. Applied mathematics in the planetary system. This one is more of a biography, but I was hoping to find something that includes more of his conceptual work..."

She brightens, straightening up again. "I might be able to help with that, actually," she tells him, and his stomach does some kind of weird flip.

"You... know Kepler?" Spencer asks, unable to contain his excitement. His voice comes out more high pitched than he would have liked.

She laughs, her nose wrinkling. "No, no. I'm- I'm not that smart. I know the system, the organizing system? For the books." She's grinning, and Spencer can't bring himself to tell her that he has the system memorized too, of course.

"Oh, wow," he says instead, giving her a smile that he hopes doesn't look too lopsided. "That would be great."

She nods, abandoning the pile of books in the middle of the aisle, and gestures for him to follow. She walks like she's on a mission, leading him a few aisles down, and running her fingers along the spines of the books. Her hands are much smaller than his. Her nails are painted brown, Spencer notices. Understated, yet well taken care of. They match the aesthetic of the library, and he can't help but wonder what her hands would look like wrapped around his own-

"Here we are!" She says brightly, tugging a book off of the shelf. "I think the whole shelf here is on conceptual mathematics, but this one looks like it's on planetary alignment specifically. Um-" Her brow furrows for a second, and she pulls a second book from the shelf. "I recognize this author, I know he gets a lot of circulation..." She looks over at Spencer quizzically, and Spencer realizes he hasn't said a word.

"Yeah, these are perfect," he tells her earnestly, taking the books from her hands. Their fingers brush for a fraction of a second, and Spencer can't help the blush that creeps up his neck. "I'm Spencer, by the way. Spencer Reid."

He's rewarded with a name. Her name. He rolls it around in his mind, and decides he likes the way it fits into his brain.

"It's nice to meet you," she says, extending a hand for him to shake. He opens his mouth to give his usual spiel about pathogens, but his words die in his throat. Would that be weird to say? He wonders. I don't want her to think that I'm odd. I could just suck it up this once, and besides, there was a bathroom on the way in. I could just shake her hand, and go find the bathroom, and wash my hands-

Spencer's thoughts are interrupted by her smile faltering, and her hand dropping. He curses in his mind. Way to go, idiot. Now she thinks you're weird regardless, and she's not going to want to talk to you anymore, and-

A pager buzzes where it's clipped to her waistband, and she clicks a button on the side of it. She gives him yet another apologetic smile, but this time, it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Sorry. Duty calls. It was nice to meet you, Mr. Reid." And then she's breezing past him, her hips swaying as she walks away, without looking back.

It's doctor, actually. The words are on the tip of his tongue as he watches her leave, but they never come to fruition. She's out of earshot before he can get his bearings.

Spencer sighs, leaning against one of the bookshelves. He's suddenly not as interested in reading about Kepler.

[divinit3a]

oneshot: out of character -> ao3 link reader x mer animatronic!moon 🌊 word count: 3,403

Working at a Fazbear animatronic theme park hadn't really been your dream, but it is your current reality.

At first, you were starry-eyed. Clocking in each day at a place that brings out the magic of imagination. Revamped from its first attempt that mysteriously burnt down after a rigorous police investigation, inexplicably refurbished into a half VR game center, half water-park. You’d bet the money that fuels such an over-the-top offshoot for the franchise pumps in from the Pizzaplex the next city over.

The ambition of the two owners who picked up the business manifested into a massive aquarium at the center, home to mechanized sea life. Animatronics of all shapes and sizes, perfect replicas of their real life counterparts. Plus or minus a more vivid, appealing, toy-selling color palette. 

The multi-level aquarium showcases beautiful spectacles of engineering that allow all creatures of the deep to intermingle without the limitations of reality. You’ve stood in the tunnels that wind throughout the first floor on the slow moving tracks before, looking around with awe and wonder at the flittering sharks and jumping dolphins. A whale would float by now and then, casting a great shadow across the tunnels as everyone hurried to snap a photo.

Ferry rides are offered at an exuberant price to float atop the largest of the decorative tanks, where a stationary mermaid animatronic waves with a pleasant smile. You stopped going to the ferry rides after they replaced the human staff with the admittedly rather creepy, blank-staring bots and their pre-recorded voice lines. 

Despite all the splendor surrounding you, the position of 'general maintenance' tends to become lackluster after cleaning up one too many barf piles near the food courts. Or being tasked with fishing cellphones out of the tops of tanks, enduring the hellish fury of whichever parent you had the misfortune of relaying the lost or damaged items policy to. Rattling off of a lengthy speech of ‘we wont pay for this,’ in corporate, smiley, customer-service-y terms. 

You sigh, pushing a heavy mop forward as music thrums through your ear buds. You take a moment to rest your head against your curled up hands at the top of the handle, listening to the last few seconds of the track, before popping the ear buds out one by one and shoving them into your jacket pockets. 

The slow drip of a faucet welcomes you back to cold, harsh reality. The last hour or more of your life was spent sopping up the ick that countless shoes tracked in and out the restroom facility throughout the day. 

By now, the sun is setting over the horizon line. You always pick up the latest shifts in the day. The overnight security staff are your regular acquaintances. You’ve bribed the main desk guy into being your ride-or-die with sugary, outdated donuts.  

There's a ding on your pager. You lean the broom handle on the brick wall, which is plastered with Chica and Roxanne themed posters that encourage handwashing. As you rest the mop, you falter to catch it from falling over, as the damn thing could never just stay put. Once you’ve prevented the disaster of the mop tipping over, you check the pager again, missing the glitching and rearranging of the letters on screen. 

Honestly, the technology is considerably retro compared to what's out on the market; looking more like a terminal you’d see in a sci-fi movie, or perhaps a calculator that would be chucked at a classmate in second grade. 

What greets you is an open-ended service ticket for the Haunted Shipwreck. You quirk an eyebrow. The exhibit was usually cleaned diligently by daytime staff in preparation for opening in the evening. Spruced up by the folks who worked at the bar, and the poor teenage saps who had to stand in the queue lines scanning tickets. The ‘ride’ was part of the finale of the virtual reality storyline that guests could pay a premium price to experience, connecting all the dots of the theme park’s attractions together. 

Plus, it was the only place that served alcohol after five pm. The specialty drinks are so neon and vivid that the sugar content has to be astronomical. 

Parents flock there like it is truly an oasis in a kiddy-park desert. 

Scratching at your head, you walk in a circle as you read the details, or lack thereof. The ticket reads, 'Exhibition needs spot cleaning.' Spot cleaning? A whole exhibit? Your thumb hovers over the button to accept the task. It beats mopping bathroom tiles any day.

You wring out the mop into its bucket, and begin the tedious task of ferrying cleaning supplies from one area to the next. On your way out, you sling the heft of a tool bag over your shoulder. 

_____________________________________

The scent of lemony freshness follows you in hot pursuit. You shove open the doors to the exhibit with a “Hello?”, expecting another person or two from the maintenance crew to have accepted the job. Cleaning a whole attraction on your lonesome did not bode well for the ‘no overtime’ policy. 

The response you get is absolute silence.

You feel along the wall for a light switch, and then remember that this is an amusement park, not a hotel. The controls for the area’s lights are all in the breaker room out back. Locked away with a key that is not in your possession. With a sigh, you fish out a flashlight from your tool bag and continue to wheel your cart in.

Without music blaring through the hidden speakers, or patrons milling through the bar onto the dance floor, the main atrium of the ride feels as haunted as its namesake. Grumbling, you pull out your pager and look down. The screen is blank, as if the task had never existed at all. 

Before you can question the disappearing act, spotlights turn on. A deafening click causes you to jolt and nearly drop the device.  

You look up, and are face to face with the animatronic who prowls the exhibit. Your lungs temporary pause all function as your heart works in overdrive. 

Above you is an elaborate trick of puppetry. A skeletal siren with a face as white as bone is frozen in place, with its arms outstretched as if it had been reaching towards you in the darkness to swipe you up. Thin, transparent plastic that shimmers like true fish scales acts as webbing between its sharp claws.

A billowing tail snakes like a serpent atop most of the area’s ceiling, weaving around the lighting system. The tip of its tailfin is curled around the rafters, as if supporting its weight. But that couldn’t be true; as a large cord connects into its back. Following the tubing leads to the pulley system which keeps it on predictable tracks. 

One eye is cyan. The other eye is entirely a deep crimson, casting an eerie glow across your face. The eye with the cyan pupil trembles. 

“Jeez, you scared me!” You say, too shocked to catch yourself before talking with an inanimate puppet.

The robotic siren, Moon, stares at you, not budging from its post. The lack of movement makes it feel more and more like a statue. You feel silly for speaking to it directly. 

But you remember: there's a person whose entire job is to spend the day operating these guys. To keep them lifelike, same as the free-roam 'animatronics' that are actually just staff in sweaty old mascot suits. Learning the truth as an employee had dimmed the magic of the theme park, but you still admit that it is an impressive work of robotics, especially considering the aquarium. 

“Are you still on for the night? Ride’s shut down,” You ask, pushing through the lingering fear you felt from the brief scare. During off-season the park closes earlier and is open about half the days, meaning that Haunted Shipwreck is mostly operational Friday and Saturday. Today is a Wednesday. You didn’t expect the elusive staff who controls the two mermaid animatronics to be on duty. 

In response, the animatronic's massive tail slaps against the faux rocky terrain that decorates its elaborate enclosure. Moon lands back on the main stage it perches on during performances. Without the constant spray of dry ice to create the illusion of fog, and the bright red lighting, the siren lacks the intimidating flare you expect.

“Well, I'm here to clean. That's all.” You rest your hands at your sides, settling your thumbs into the belt loops. 

Moon peers at you. Then it rolls over onto its back. The wires controlling its electronics flatten against the surface as it settles into place. You blink as you stare at a 'belly-up' fish. Its hands rest into a t-rex, claw-like position at its sides, as if it wasn’t used to laying down, either, and instantly felt awkward. 

“Oh,” You exclaim, wrapping your head around the vague task you accepted. At last, you understand who – or what, needs cleaning: the animatronic itself. There’s gum stuck to its sculpted fins and a few pieces of paper wedged into the joints that segment its torso from its abdomen, limiting its range of motion. 

A cruel prank, regardless of the recipient’s ability to feel discomfort. 

You set your tool bag down on the floor and stumble up the plastic molded rocks, right past the ‘DO NOT CLIMB’ sign. All things considered, the ‘spot cleaning’ looks like an easy project to finish off your shift. 

You sit on your knees next to the animatronic. 

You start by pulling the paper jammed into its torso hinge out. You brace a palm against its side, and carefully tug. Hearing the papers tear makes you curse softly under your breath. 

The animatronic watches, and then bends its torso hinge away, giving you easier access to pull the shredded bits out. 

You begin to notice that all the papers jammed inside the robot are actually posters and pamphlets that you can pick up for free at the photo kiosk a room over. Strange. 

Taking a second to indulge your curiosity, you inspect one of the postcards. 

The front of the card is split into two; the daytime half, Sun, spritely and bright on the left. And his cursed form that haunts the seas at night, Moon, in an ominous dark silhouette on the right. A few of these are even lenticular prints that you can shift back and forth, but those have to be bought at the complimentary gift shop at the end of the ride.  

The depicted dark, jagged silhouette of Moon is a sharp contrast to the docile animatronic beside you. Existing to be ‘vanquished’ time and time again, by brave patrons, in order to free Sun from the shackles of an evil witch’s hex. 

The witch character is set to debut at long last in a few months.

You find yourself smiling at the memories of watching the performance for the first time; the smoke and mirrors of the robots being switched out on stage to masquerade as one feat of engineering. The silly story never fails to be engaging, with how much production was poured into making Sun’s character so lifelike and memorable.

Now that you think about it, you wonder why Moon never got the same treatment. You look up to see that the ‘cursed siren’ on your mind is staring right at you, almost expectantly. Beneath its chassis where your palms rest is a soft, insistent hum of machinery, fans set to medium gear. It points to a piece of paper you missed under its arm socket. You lean closer to dig in, their gaze burning into the back of your head. 

The silence as you work on the clean-up becomes increasingly uncomfortable. Even more so when you consider that whoever is tasked with puppeting Moon is still up in the server room, no doubt working past their shift’s end to make your job easier by maneuvering the siren this way and that. 

Though, you wonder why the puppeteer didn't just meet you at Haunted Shipwreck themself to talk it through. Must be some kind of NDA, or lack of a remote control.

By the time you are scraping gum off glittering scales, you decisively break the ice with, “Y'know, Im surprised. I thought you'd be home by now,” beginning the idle, one-sided chatter. Just because you are here on business, doesn’t mean the exchange had to be so clinical. Your quiet companion shows that its listening by flicking the long fin that adorns its head. Bright cyan tracks your every movement with what feels like intense curiosity.

While you work, you take out the pager to check on your tasks for the night. In an instant, Moon swipes it, moving faster than you can comprehend. They slither away from you with shocking speed, cable attached to its back whirring to keep up with the momentum. 

“Hey! Give that back!” You reach up, fingertips brushing off the smooth scales upon its long, imposing tail. Up above, the animatronic fiddles with the pager. Frustration ripples off it as its hands clunkily tap away at the tiny, human-sized keyboard. 

“Don't break it, c'mon, it'll come out of my paycheck!” You swat at the robot whose mid-air. You gasp at the audacity it has to curl its tail inward and away from you. An unfair game of keep-away. 

Moon turns the screen of the pager back to you. 'Thank you,' is typed out in simplistic, boxy letters. You blink, staring at the screen as the pager is gingerly placed back in your hands, claws ghosting across your arms. The siren pulls back quickly. Moon fidgets with the hem of its costuming, a subtle act of nerves that trips you up even worse.

“You—you're welcome.” You stumble on your words, not quite sure why the sentiment is so shocking. But it feels like it came from the robot itself—whoever ran these guys was committed to staying in character. Even to other staff. You admire the dedication.

The robot leers down at you. Pupils burning, an unsettling lack of expression except for a wide-eyed stare that never relents the pressure it exerts. A hand extends out, and it takes a moment for you to realize that its asking for the pager back. Dumbstruck, you comply without a second thought. The robot taps away at the keyboard, dwarfed by its palms. You hear the click-click-click of the backspace button as it shakes its faceplate.

The pager returns to you. After all its effort, only one word is on the screen: 'Again.'

“Again?” You repeat aloud, looking up at Moon with confusion. The robot continues to fidget, before nodding so quickly in confirmation, that you are worried you'll need to send in a ticket to fix its neck hinge. That sort of job goes to the on-sight mechanics who the company contracts, not a regular maintenance guy like you. “You'd... like me to stop by, again?” You guess, and Moon's nerves boil over. The tracks in the ceiling creak as the creature 'swims' all around you, showcasing flashes of glittering fins and the faintest glint of sharp fangs beneath its flowing collar. With the blur of violet, magenta, and crimson swirling around you, its like being in the middle of a shark swarm— without any of the fear. 

Because you take the boundless enthusiasm to mean, 'yes.'

”Okay, okay. I will,“ You laugh at the strange antics, charmed by how earnest the supposedly wicked siren can be. You don’t know much about Moon's character here at the park; he was intentionally left mysterious to add to the villainous flare. Or perhaps, to excuse the lack of forethought into an antagonist designed for a theme park. So, to see him instead doing several aerial laps around the perimeter of the shipwreck, you can't help but find them endearing.

Your pager dings, reminding you that there is twenty minutes before your shift ends, and one bathroom facility left half-mopped in your haste. 

“It was nice meeting you,” You hesitate—you have no idea who this person is. You stare into the lens of the animatronic’s eyes, pondering who was watching you back on the camera feed. 

Maybe the two of you could get lunch sometime off the clock, away from the prying of corporate eyes. Perhaps they are nervous to break character. You glance to the security camera in the corner, and back, ”...Moon,” you decide to call them by the character they play, for the time being. 

The siren lurches toward you. 

You reel back, almost slipping on the plastic rocks.

Spindly limbs wrap around you, catching you from your fall, and—Oh.

You blink, struggling to keep up. The wretched siren of the coast is giving you a hug. The fabric of its costume sleeves is silky and smooth, and almost bundles you up like a tarp.   

”O-okay, then.” You pat at the back of the animatronic. Its staring at you so seriously with massive, leering eyes, that you are struggling not to buckle under the stress. The pressure Moon exerts is light, but spikes your heart rate regardless. Your feet are almost off the ground, balancing on the heels of your work boots as you tilt back. You aren’t looking to go for a swim, or to be put on medical leave from a concussion. 

“That’s, um, very sweet, thank you, Moon.” You tap its arms next to indicate you’re ready to be let go of. You find your cheeks flushing in embarrassment, wondering if the animatronic’s puppeteer thinks its amusing to scare you with this level of whiplash. Maybe it is funny to them, to make the theme park's aloof villain act all cuddly for one-on-one exchanges. 

“There we go—nice and easy,” you find yourself narrating, as the siren deliberately sets you back down on the floor. Not back onto the rocks; no, it cranes you over to main floor, where you run a much smaller risk of falling on uneven terrain. 

Walking over to collect your belongings, you shrug your tool bag over your shoulder, and place a hand on the handle of your cleaning cart.

The animatronic waves you off, watching with interest as you shove your way out the door. A glimpse of the outside world, the low lights of the shut-down park and the infinite expanse of the night sky.

You stop in the doorway, prolonging the moment, “Have a good night, Moon.” The animatronic stays perfectly still, playing its role. Poised with elegance and a threatening aura. The sight leaves you with chills, although you hardly had reason to fear the animatronic, or its friendly puppeteer.

The door closes.

A pause. 

Moon stays put until they can no longer hear the roll of your cart. Then it springs up. Pacing back and forth, tail moving as smoothly as kelp in the current, weaving through decorative pillars that sell the illusion of being underwater, trapped in a shipwreck. The sliding of the wire on its tracks plays a symphony as it maneuvers around. Feeling–feeling, like it did something right, by doing something terribly wrong. The sensation was so complex that it keeps cataloguing every second.

Moon couldn't believe that tampering with a maintenance ticket actually worked. A small, small chance that anyone would pick up the task he made up— jamming postcards into its segments in a fury to make the objective believable, once someone had actually said 'yes.'

The cord above squeals, and Moon realizes it needs to relax, less it break its ability to move within its small, small world. 

Settling back down, the siren sits on its lonely perch with a glimmer of hope–that you'll be back again the next night, and the next, and the next. After all, you spoke to them with such ease. Most everyone pretends he’s nothing more than a glorified stage prop. Doomed with an underutilized, elaborate AI on the same caliber as all the others in the park, who roam freely. Who get to interact, learn, and grow daily; who get to make friends and play so many games.  

Until next time, they'll work on their communication. Study the humans who walk through its exhibit closer and closer. Experiment with how to evoke emotions beyond fear.

Their tail thumps, eager to continue daydreaming throughout the rest of its cycle spent awake.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Coveted.

Pairing: Yandere!Geto x Reader (+Yandere!Gojo) [JJK].

Word Count: 1.1k.

TW: Set Two or Three Years Post KFC Break-Up, Intimidation, Prolonged Stalking, Future Dub/Con, Mentions of Non/Con, and Unbalanced Power Dynamics.

[Part Two]

“You’re Satoru’s date, right?”

The voice was masculine, deep and as rough as it could be without crossing the line into gravelly. You stiffened, squaring your shoulders and burrowing your nails into your palm as your eyes darted across the table – where a man with dark hair and an off-putting smile was currently sliding into the unoccupied side of your booth. He reached out, clearly planning to shake your hand, but when you failed to move, he only let out an airy chuckle, propping his chin on his fist as he went on. “I’m a friend of his – Geto Suguru. You can call me Suguru-chan, though. Has he already told you about me?”

He was dressed like he’d just rolled out of bed – his attire limited to a form-fitting black shirt and a pair of loose sweatpants in the same color, his hair pulled into a loose bun. His tone was friendly, light. You returned it with a dead-pan stare, hoping it conveyed the weight of your exhaustion. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Is that what he told you to say?” Another laugh, somehow more blood-chilling than the first. Your attention shifted outward, to the late-night diner where Gojo had asked you to meet him. There were only a few other customers, the skeleton of a proper staff, but single other person would’ve been one too many. You didn’t need to make a scene, not again, not after last time. “That sounds like him. He’s always been a stingy bastard.”

With a pressed frown, you pushed yourself to your feet, but Geto’s grin only broadened. He snapped his fingers and as if it’d only been waiting for a queue, a shape manifested at the end of your bench. You couldn’t bring yourself to look directly at it, but you saw enough out of the corner of your eye; a bulbous torso, shrunken arms, too many eyes to resemble any living thing. Instantly, what little courage you still had was replaced with a knot of dread, a bolt of pure anxiety. You half-expected it to lunge, to bite, to attack, but it didn’t move, only standing guard at the foot of your table.

It didn’t move, but it didn’t have to. In a moment, you’d fallen back into your seat and shoved yourself against the wall, fighting not to shake. It was a sight Geto seemed to take a particular joy in, letting his head lull to the side as he watched you curl into yourself. “You can see them. I was starting to think I had the wrong person.” A pause, a glance towards his summoned monster before his narrowed gaze skirted back to you. “Don’t be shy, now. How much did he tell you?”

It took you a moment to find your tongue, another to swallow back the tremor in your voice. "He said he could protect me.” It was harder to admit than you’d expected – not so much that you needed protection, but that there was something you needed protection from. You’d spent so long writing off your monsters as hallucinations that it was still a struggle to act like they were anything more. But, for as unwilling as you were to confront your little monsters, the resounding ache in your right leg where that thing had dug its claws into you was impossible to ignore. “He… he didn’t mention anyone else, but we’ve only spoken once. He was supposed to explain—” You gestured to the monster. “—all of this today.”

A slight hum, a look of genuine surprise. “So, he’s got some self-restraint after all! I thought he would’ve cracked months ago, considering how long he’s been following you around like a lost puppy.” He must’ve seen your expression fall, your posture slacken, because he didn’t wait for a response before going on. “I mean, you must’ve known that, at least. Did you think he’d play knight-in-shining-armor for just anyone?”

“I…” You trailed off quickly, shaking your head. “I don’t care. As long as he can protect me, I don’t care why he’s doing it.”

“That’s a dangerous thing to say. You wouldn’t want to make Satoru feel so replaceable, now, would you?”  

At that, you met his stare. “What do you want?”

His eyes skirted towards the monster, who took an obedient step back. For a second, you considered running, trying to slip away before the man in front of you or your newly-realized stalker could make you regret ever showing up at all, but Geto was quick to cut off your escape route, filling the empty space beside you before you could so much as pick which door you would barrel through on the way out. “Well, now that we’re on the same page,” Unlike his monster, he didn’t give you the option of leaving him in your peripheral; settling close enough for his leg to press into yours. At this proximity, you could pick up the smoke on his breath, the scent of stale gore clinging to him like a second skin. As if he’d just stepped out of a blood bath. “I’d like to make you an alternative offer.”

“You’d protect me?”

“Oh, I’d do more than just that.” His hand fell to your thigh. “I’d have everything you’ve ever been afraid of bowing to you by the end of the night.”

You swallowed dryly. “You didn’t answer my first question. What do you get out of helping me?”

His answer was nonverbal, but clear enough. With that same idle grin, he nodded toward the streaked window, to the building across the street. Your heart fell into your stomach. It was one of those sleazy, by-the-hour hotels – the sign missing more than a few letters and the parking lot as empty as the diner. It was the kind of place that you only went to for one thing, and you had a feeling Geto hadn’t found some miraculous second reason to want to be alone with you in one of those bug-infested rooms.

You weren’t sure why you said it. Maybe to buy yourself time. Maybe because you couldn’t stand the idea of being left in silence as what was left of your rational mind screamed at you to get out of there. “I don’t have any money.”

“It’ll be my treat.”

“What happens I refuse?”

“I kill everyone here,” His nails bit into exposed skin. “And then fuck you on this table while their bodies attract flies.”

You might’ve cried, if you hadn’t been so tired.

You might’ve done anything, if you could bring yourself to care about anything but keeping those awful creatures at a distance.

Stiffly, with your eyes shut and your teeth grit, you forced yourself to nod. Geto rewarded you with an impossibly wide grin, a breath of a laugh. “Smart little thing.”

This time, he didn’t pretend it was an option; reaching out, taking your trembling hand in his own, and squeezing so softly, you could almost convince yourself he was being gentle.

“It’s only a shame Satoru isn’t here to join us.”

[starrystevie]

eddie knows his crush on steve harrington is a hopeless cause, okay?

he's somehow been friends with steve long enough to know what he looks like when he's flirting, what he looks like when he has a crush, when his sights are set on someone very non-eddie munson shaped. he also now knows how to hide his jealousy in a fake smirk that he flashes steve's way when yet another pretty girl walks their way with her sights set on him and a smirk of her own.

eddie always watches as steve reaches out a hand just so to gently brush it against a lovely lady's arm with that charming fucking smile and sees how that lovely lady will always melt at the touch. and who could blame her? certainly not eddie, the same eddie who's had his own sights set on steve harrington for what feels like a life time. if anyone knows how painfully a heart can beat when it sees him from across the room and imagines a date and a future and a life with steve, it would be eddie.

but that's where it ends. steve harrington, the ladies man that he is, always stops things there with a smile and a wave thrown in the woman's direction as she walks away. it throws eddie for a loop every time. he would watch the two flirt for minutes that that felt like torturous hours for him only for it to end with a disappointed look on her face and steve turning his attention back to eddie like nothing had happened.

it makes no sense.

"i don't get it, man," he says one day as steve lets yet another girl walk away down to the opposite end of the grocery store aisle they're in. steve's turned back to staring at the shopping list in his hand and is muttering to himself instead of watching her walk away like eddie is, disbelief coloring his face.

"don't get what?" steve asks back, not bothering to look up until the silence goes on for too long. his eyes land on eddie's and he frowns slightly, shaking his head slowly. "... did i miss something?"

eddie reels back, eyebrows furrowing together and motions his arms every which way, from the girl's retreating form to the empty space around them.

"steve, you're just going to let her walk away and not get her number? she was obviously hitting on you, dude."

he watches as steve's face crinkles slightly before smoothing out and shrugs his shoulders, turning back to grab the cat food eddie feeds to the strays off the shelf. he lurches forward and places his hands on steve's shoulders to face him, watching as his eyes go wide.

"what do you want me to say?" steve shrugs again and eddie can feel the movement under his hands. "i guess i wasn't feeling it."

eddie sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face before returning it back to steve's shoulder. "wasn't feeling it... steve, i'm gay, not blind. you two obviously were hitting it off with your fucking charming lines and flirty eyes. you always do this and it makes zero fucking sense-"

"-you're gay?"

steve says a bit too loud for eddie's liking even if they are currently hidden in the pet food aisle. heat floods his cheeks and he throws a hand cover steve's mouth while shushing him to keep him from saying it again. he sees steve's eyes go even wider and feels warmth spreading under his fingers.

is steve...

"you knew this!" eddie accuses in a whisper and tries to breathe evenly while steve's gaze travels all over his face. "we talked about it with robin that one time!"

... is he blushing?

there's a sudden pressure at his side and he looks down to see steve's fingers curling over his waist. eddie takes in a stuttering breath and brings his own wide eyes up to meet steve's. it's like looking in a fun house mirror, seeing his flush creeping up steve's neck and watching steve blink in time with him. he can feel when steve tries to say something, his lips ghosting over his palm and eddie pulls back like he's been burned, but steve's hand stays right where it is on his side.

"i absolutely would have remembered if you told me that before," he says and his voice is a little breathless. "there's no way i was there when you guys talked about it."

eddie thinks back to the party when he and robin were huddled up on their couch together. argyle and nancy were dancing in their socks on the living room floor, bouncing around to some experimental track that had been badly recorded on a cassette. jonathan was sitting at the coffee table snapping photos of them, joint hanging from his lips and easy smile spreading on his face.

eddie's trying to pinpoint where steve is in this memory and that's usually the easiest thing for him to remember, but he can't...

until suddenly he can, because steve walked in through the sliding door with his shirt over his shoulder and his swim trunks low on his hips and water dripping down his chest and a cigarette behind his ear and the sunset bleeding in through the windows was painting him golden and he was walking over to dance with nancy with a wide grin pulling at his cheeks and-

"god, i'm gay," eddie had breathed out. robin followed his line of sight and nodded because she gets it like she has a steve problem of her own and that was that.

eddie focuses back in on steve while they stand in the fucking pet food aisle, focuses on the shrill jingle pouring out of the grocery store speakers and not on the way he can hear his heartbeat in his ears, focuses on the way steve can look good even in harsh fluorescent lights.

"well, now you know," is all he can breath out.

steve smiles, all white teeth and crinkled eyes, and his fingers curl even tighter around eddie's waist as he takes a half step even further into his personal space.

"you're why," steve says back easily and eddie reminds himself to breathe as the other side of his waist suddenly has a hand covering it, too. "i don't take their numbers, i don't give them mine, i don't go on the stupid dates they ask me out on because..."

the fingers dance up his side and eddie can't breathe.

"... they're not you, so why would i?"

eddie sends up a silent thank you to whoever is listening that they're hidden away from prying eyes in the pet food aisle so he can lean it and learn for the first time what steve's smile tastes like.

[grenadehearts]

sun drunk and honey eyed.

synopsis: childhood memories, sun kissed skin syrupy mouths, lingering pinky promises and first kisses.

cw: wc 1.5k, izuku x fem!chubby!reader, fluff and mutual pining (heavy on izuku though)

authors note: this was a commission :) pls remember my commissions are always open and help immensely during a very tough time im currently going through. emergency comms linked here. masterlist link here.

You remind Izuku of summer— Of saltwater and laughter carried on the wind, the kind that clings to skin and never quite leaves. Of berry-stained lips and sticky fingers from popsicles melting too fast under the sun. He thinks of how you used to chase each other barefoot down cracked sidewalks, your giggles echoing louder than the cicadas, arms outstretched like you were flying, like nothing could ever touch you.

You remind him of those All Might movie marathons, the ones that stretched deep into the night under blanket forts made of couch cushions and dreams. The screen would flicker against your faces as you quoted lines by heart, stuffing your mouths with popcorn and daring each other to stay awake through the entire trilogy. You always won. He never minded losing to you.

He still wears that dumb plastic ring you gave him when you were seven—part of a "marriage proposal" you made with all the seriousness two sugar-high kids could muster. You handed it to him after making him pinky promise to always stay by your side, forever and always, and he’d grinned so wide his cheeks hurt. It was blue raspberry flavored, so you both took turns licking it until it was nothing but a sticky memory, the plastic heart now kept safe in the little box of treasures under his bed.

You remind Izuku of scraped knees and band-aids with cartoon heroes on them, of nights spent whispering secrets through tin-can telephones strung between your windows. Of the time you both tried to dye your hair with Kool-Aid and ended up staining the bathroom sink and getting grounded together.

When he looks at you now, he still sees all of that. Still hears the soft crashing of waves behind your laughter, still feels the warmth of your hand grabbing his as you drag him toward whatever adventure you've set your mind on next. The world could be burning and you'd still look at him like you believed in something better. Like you believed in him.

You remind him of everything good he ever knew before the world got hard and sharp. Before the weight of being a hero began carving into his shoulders. When the world was small and bright and all it took to feel brave was you beside him, holding a flashlight like it was a sword.

He thinks he might always look at you like that—

Like you're sunlight in human form.

Like you're the reason he keeps going when everything else feels heavy.

Like maybe, just maybe, if he keeps holding your hand, it’ll always feel like summer again.

Izuku knows.

He’s known for a long time, really—how you hold a soft spot for him. It’s written in every shy smile that tries to stay small but always grows into a beaming grin, round cheeks flushed with pink like watercolor spilled across your skin. He sees it in the little doodles you scratch into the corners of his notebooks with your colored pens—hearts, stars, clumsy sketches of his face mid-ramble or his hero costume with too many freckles. He knows in the way your knees bump his under the table, not moving away when he gets carried away talking about All Might. Or when he suddenly swerves from that and starts gushing about your quirk and how cool you are and how brave and how kind and—

He knows because even when you’re quiet, you stay.

Sometimes you rest your head on his shoulder when he talks too long, your eyelids fluttering like you’re not bored—just calm, lulled by his voice. And he’ll go still, afraid to move too much and disturb the peace. And in those moments, he can smell your shampoo—floral and soft and faintly sweet, like the petals of a garden only he gets to stand in.

Right now, it’s different—but it still feels like that. Like the calm between all the noise of the world is right here.

It’s a golden afternoon, sun bright and heavy in the sky, casting dappled shadows across the lawn. The blades of grass tickle at your bare feet, soft and green and warm beneath you. You’re stretched out beside him, your legs lazily tangled with his, your bikini bottoms peeking out from under loose unbuttoned denim shorts. Your T-shirt hangs off one shoulder, skin kissed pink by the sun, collarbones glowing where the sunlight touches. There’s syrupy popsicle juice dripping down your fingers and chin, staining your lips and tongue a deep berry red.

And Izuku is shirtless, freckles scattered from his cheeks down to his chest like constellations. His green curls are a little damp at the edges, clinging to his forehead, and his chest rises and falls in slow, lazy breaths as he lays back on the blanket, glowing under the sky.

You're both laughing—soft and breathless—over something stupid he said, some corny dad joke that wouldn’t have landed with anyone else but made you wheeze with laughter. You lean your head against his shoulder again, your cheeks sticky and warm and your heart full, and Izuku thinks he could stay like this forever.

Your laughter quiets into something gentler, something almost wistful, and your fingers reach up to tug at the edge of his hair. You’re staring at him, sun-drunk and honey-eyed, and then you glance away again—off to the sky, or maybe back in time.

“Remember that summer,” you start softly, “when we thought we could build a treehouse in your mom’s backyard with just rope and cardboard?”

Izuku chokes on a laugh, rolling onto his side to look at you better. “You mean the one that collapsed on me and you cried for like an hour because you thought I broke my leg?”

“I thought you did!” you say, half laughing, half scolding, nudging your foot against his. “You wouldn't stop screaming!”

“I was screaming because you were screaming!” he counters, grinning. “You stepped on my limited edition all might figurine trying to get help!”

“I was panicking!”

Izuku is laughing now—really laughing. His shoulders shake with it, the sound bubbling up from deep in his chest, and he rolls closer to you until his forehead almost bumps yours. His arm falls around your waist in the motion, loose and easy and too close, and you don’t move.

You never do.

And your heart stumbles a bit when he looks at you like that—cheeks pink from the sun, lips wet with melted popsicle, eyes that could catch stars in them if they tried hard enough.

The sound fades from his chest, slowly, but the grin remains. Just a bit softer. A bit shakier.

Izuku stares at you for a long second, and his heart starts doing that thing again—that terrified, aching thump like it’s not sure whether to leap forward or fall back. You’re close. Too close. The kind of close that would ruin everything if he made the wrong move. The kind that makes it impossible not to look at your lips and wonder.

He swallows, and his voice goes quieter than he meant.

“Y/n…”

Your name sounds like something sacred in his mouth. Like something he’s never allowed himself to say like that before.

You blink, gently, brows tugging just a little. “Hey, Zu… You okay?”

You brush a curl from his forehead, fingers light against his skin, and that’s it.

He breaks.

Because he isn’t okay. He hasn’t been okay since he realized you’re not just his best friend anymore. Haven’t been okay since he noticed the way your hand feels different when it’s wrapped around his wrist instead of just touching his arm. Haven’t been okay since he dreamed once about kissing you and woke up with tears on his cheeks because it felt so far away.

So Izuku doesn’t think—he prays, silently, to All Might or to fate or to whatever power is watching—and he leans in.

The kiss is soft and sun-warmed and tastes like salt and berry-flavored popsicles and summertime. His lips move slow against yours like he’s scared you’ll vanish the moment he presses in too hard, like you’re made of smoke and the slightest pressure will send you scattering.

You kiss him back with your whole heart.

When you finally pull apart, the world feels quieter. Softer.

He’s still leaning over you, green eyes wide and almost scared, like he’s waiting for you to change your mind. His cheeks are blazing, his fingers trembling where they’ve curled around your side.

“I—” he starts, breath catching. “I love you. I… I really do.”

You smile. So softly it almost hurts.

You thumb over his cheekbone, gentle, tracing the freckles kisses by the sun, like you’re memorizing them for later.

“Zu,” you whisper, voice barely a breath, “I love you.”

You always beat him to it.

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath since childhood. His forehead drops against yours, and for a while, you just stay like that—knees tangled, lips pink and sticky, hearts finally, finally on the same page.

The popsicles melt into the grass. The sun dips a little lower.

And the summer stretches on, sweet and golden and full of promises finally kept.

taglist: @xoxojisu @candiiee @luvseraphh @cvnt4him @soundtrqck @chlosology @lotusstarr @cupkiki @wokasiv @badslittlemuffin @princessshnazzy @203steph @chitteringcicadaeyes @idk1187 @notartemis777 @chosostonguepiercing @chocolatedefendorbaa @t33th--r0t @3lenaatvt @the-faceless-bride @tuneinwlosers @badslittlemuffin @dreamcastgirl99 @gethexxed @moonstonejpg @pluto-9456 @wonubby @kye1aaazene @izukusfangirl @van9lla @dienamiight @sofi4dsam @kawaiiclubdaily @therefore-evermore @bluemailhiot @luckybibucky @sk1ppy-art @d011yyxx @myths-and-ledgends @icanread-icantwrite @changkyunnnie @blue-birdie-bixch @aj1j @twoplayergaymers @socialobligation @calliopemanga

[abitohoney]

Seducing the Councilwoman

AO3 link

Sevika x female reader

Rating: Explicit, MDNI, NSFW

Tags: Sevika/Reader, Shameless Smut, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Lesbian Sex, Clothed Sex, Hair-pulling, Vaginal Fingering, Teasing, Post Season 2, Councilwoman Sevika, Assistant Reader

Word Count: 3.9k Councilwoman Sevika is nothing like the other Council members. In fact, she’s nothing like any other woman in all of Valoran. She’s the epitome of tall, dark, handsome- and dangerous. So who can blame you, the innocent assistant to the Council, for falling for her undeniable charms?

But just who is seducing whom here?

AN: Posted this on AO3 last week, but figured I'd throw it on here too.

It’s another beautiful day in Piltover. Puffy white clouds paint the background of a blue sky. The sun shines through the ornate colored glass of the Council’s chambers, casting bright patterns along the tiled floor.

Much the contradiction to the sunny cheerfulness of the day, is one of the Council’s newest members.

Sevika.

She sits on the chair that, coincidentally enough, faces the window receiving the most direct light. A cape, dark red- almost burgundy- in color covers much of her left side. Even the gold stitching decorating the edges appears dull from the dirt and grime that comes from living in the Undercity. Her rich brown skin is adorned with other various dark shades; her hand- a black leather glove that also decorates her wrist; her face- accents painted in deep, chocolate tones, and obscured by short, wispy strands of nearly black hair.

And then there’s her expression. The epitome of overcast. Lips downturned and brows knit so tightly in their own decline that you can easily spot the little lines it creates just above her nose even from where you stand at the opposite end of the massive cog-shaped table in the center of the room. Had you not been privy to a few lucky and rare moments in which those lips curled in the opposite direction, you may have thought the scowl was permanent.

And yet- at least in your eyes- nothing in that room could possibly be more radiant than her.

She’s downright gorgeous.

And you’ve been lucky enough to land the position of assistant to the council, including- and most importantly- her.

Having grown up in the upper echelon that is Piltover, where everything is pristine, proper, pure, and “perfect”, it’s an absolute treat to see someone so… very much the opposite. At least to you, this was a good thing.

The remaining members of the Council watch Sevika with wary, judging eyes. They’re just as suspicious and distrusting of her as she is of them. And although she seems to hold some of that same skepticism towards you, you’ve been slowly buttering– working her up over the past several months.

As you make your way around the table, passing a fresh cup of hot tea to each member, you keep your eyes trained on Sevika, with a soft, feigned innocent smile on your face.

She notices, as given by the way her gray eyes meet yours for a brief moment before flitting back to one of the other members currently rambling about Janna knows what. You don’t know. And you quite frankly don’t care. All you care about is her.

When you make your way to her side, you gently place a hand on her opposite shoulder and bend over, bringing your lips far closer to her ear than you should, given your position and the current audience. But you’re too smooth about it. Nobody else in the room catches the show you’re putting on.

“I’ve put something a little extra special in your drink today, Councilwoman Sevika,” you all but purr. You carefully set her cup down on the table near where her arm rests. Her eyes focus briefly on the proffered drink, brows furrowing as if she can somehow concentrate hard enough to determine the contents. Contents she likely believes to be poisonous. She cocks her head just enough to peer up at you from the corner of her eyes.

Though those looks of obvious distrust should really sting given how much you fancy her, you truly find it nothing more than cute. Intriguing even. She has no reason to doubt your intentions towards her. They are purely innocent. Well, at least in the sense that you have no intention of harming her.

You slowly straighten up, allowing your fingertips to trail all too slowly along the back of her neck. Her nostrils flare, and you swear she even shivers a bit at that subtle touch.

You offer her a sweet smile and a not-so-subtle wink before strolling towards your seat off to the side of the large room.

Disappointingly, your seat is a bit too far to the side of Sevika for you to see that lovely face of hers. However, you are graced with her side profile, which is more than enough to feed you your fill of eye candy. From your position, you can clearly see that adorably prominent and round nose of hers- the one you’ve fantasized about riding far more times than any decent lady should. Also on clear display is a majority of her arm. She may only have one at the moment, but it’s worth far more than all the arms in that room combined. That delightfully toned arm- that bulging bicep- has starred in just as many of your fantasies. Whether wrapped around your neck or beneath your fingers as you held on for dear life while she railed you into a delirium–

You snap yourself out of your drifting imagination when you notice her reaching for the drink. Nearly leaning forward in your seat with anticipation, you watch as she slowly brings it to her deliciously soft-looking lips. She pauses- that silly, cute woman- likely trying to smell for nonexistent poison, before finally bringing it to her lips and taking a small sip.

Janna, you wish you could see her face when she realizes you’ve mixed her favorite whiskey into her tea. Or more like mixed tea into her favorite whiskey, given the ratio you used. You're more than well aware how much she likes her liquor.

She cocks her head just the slightest- she’s so cute - takes a moment to identify the familiar flavor before taking another sip.

To your utter dismay, she doesn’t finish her drink. Clearly, her distrust in all of Piltover’s inhabitants takes control of her better judgment. She could have just enjoyed a nice warm drink and melted some of those obviously taut nerves and muscles.

Muscles you want to explore with your hands.

And mouth.

Oh well. You’re not about to give up on your mission just yet.

So you sit through the rest of the Council meeting, attention entirely on Sevika. You hang on every word that falls from that pretty mouth of hers. On every syllable spoken in her seductively deep, rough voice. Your lips curl at every biting remark she makes. At every quick retort to the other Council members.

She’s more than just a pretty face.

More than just a sculpture of muscle.

She’s clever too.

She’s the whole package- and you’re bound and determined to break it open- make it yours.

The end of the meeting couldn’t come soon enough. Now comes your favorite part. You get to escort Sevika down the lift and out of the building before she heads back into the depths of the Undercity. It’s your chance to finally be alone with her.

You press the button to open the lift, stepping aside to allow her to enter first. As usual though, she stands rooted to her spot just a few steps from the opening, side-eyeing you.

Oh, and she’s a real gentlewoman too.

So cute.

You smile and whisper a soft “thank you” before stepping inside. You intentionally choose to stand in the center of the small space. No matter where she tries to stand, she’ll be close. So close.

She opts to stand just behind and to your right, her bicep brushing against your bare shoulder as she passes by. Sparks ignite your skin at that contact, and you wonder if she feels it too. You press the button for the main floor before turning to face her, your back against the door.

“Did you enjoy your drink, Councilwoman Sevika?” you ask sweetly.

She fixes you with narrowed eyes.

The lift makes it no further than halfway to the next floor when the side of her fist slams into the control panel right beside your head.

The sudden sound of bone on metal and the lift coming to a halt startles you a bit, but you’re quick to school your expression with another smile. You're confident she has just as little intention to hurt you as you do her.

She brings her face close to yours as she growls, “What’s your deal, girl?”

“My deal?” you ask- more feigned innocence. It shouldn’t be so fun to play naive with a woman this dangerous, but -oh goodness- does the way her nostrils flare and her pretty blue scars light up just pull you further towards that danger.

“Are you trying to poison me?” she grinds out through gritted teeth.

Her nose is nearly touching yours now, but you remain unmoved, cool, and confident. Your eyes never once leave hers, despite how tempting it is to take a peek at the bicep currently resting well within your periphery.

“What on Runeterra are you talking about?” you ask with a feathery light chuckle. “Of course not.”

“What did you put in my drink?”

“Your favorite whiskey. Or, at least I thought it was.” You give her a fake pout, as if offended that she didn’t like your gift.

She glares at you for a brief moment, her breath hot and heavy. She’s worked up and it’s absolutely lovely.

“Then why just my drink?” she finally asks.

“Because you’re my favorite,” you reply nonchalantly before adding, “Well, if I’m being perfectly honest, you’re the only one I like out of the whole lot.”

That seems to catch her off guard.

She cocks that brow again and you can see the gears turning in that pretty head of hers. She’s trying so hard to figure you out. To process all the hints you’ve been dropping over the past several months of meetings.

How much cuter can this woman get?

You decide to take pity on her- give her one more little hint.

You lift a hand through the small gap between your precariously close bodies to run your fingertip along one of the golden spikes adorning her shoulder pad. “You’re truly an amazing woman, you know? Nothing like anyone I’ve ever met.”

She huffs through her nose at that, clearly not falling for your flattery.

Not yet, at least.

You let your lids slowly flutter shut as you take in an exaggerated deep breath and relish in how delicious she smells. Spice, smoke, sweat.

“Girl, do you know who I am?” she asks, her voice much quieter now, but nonetheless threatening.

You open your eyes to meet hers again and smile coyly. “Oh, I know who you are, alright. I know far more about you than you likely realize. I know you were the kingpin Silco’s right-hand woman. I know all the things you’ve done with that hand of yours-” your eyes flit to where her cape covers her missing arm “-and the other. But what I really want to know is just what else that hand can do.”

She raises a single brow.

“I want you to show me,” you answer her unspoken question while trailing your finger down her arm and over her exposed bicep. You let your eyes descend to her lips, watching them intently as you slowly lick your lips. The corner of her mouth twitches, and you know you’ve finally got her.

That tiny gap is closed in an instant. Her body- a delightful blend of soft curves and hard muscle- is pressed fully against yours. Lips connect, and her mouth captures the soft gasp that pulls from your throat. Her fist remains pressed against the control panel, but you waste no time sliding your hands beneath her cape. One hand finds its way to the buckle that rests over her right breast, gripping it and pulling her impossibly closer. Your other hand travels down to the waist of her pants, fingers dipping beneath, desperate for a touch of that beautiful skin.

You press your tongue to her lips, which adorably enough open right up for you.

She’s just as eager as you are.

You delve inside, and -oh goodness- she tastes even better than she smells. Whiskey and warm spices. She’s a drink all of her own.

A wanton moan escapes your locked lips when her tongue meets yours. She cocks her head to deepen the kiss, that glorious nose of hers rubbing alongside yours. You press your knee between her strong thighs, and oh, does that elicit the most wonderful thing you’ve ever heard.

She groans, so deep from within her chest, you swear you can feel it.

You both freeze for a brief moment, equally startled by the intensity of her reaction.

Then she suddenly pulls back from the kiss. Her hand falls to her side, and your hands sadly lose their grip on her. She’s panting- chest heaving- and looking you over with furrowed brows.

How can this woman be so infuriatingly cute? You’re standing here waiting for her to tear you apart, do unspeakable things to your body, and she, ever the gentlewoman, or maybe she’s just paranoid, is still trying to figure out if this is really what you were after all this time.

Well, if she isn’t going to make the moves, you will do it for her.

You close that gap again, grasping a fistful of her cape to pull her lips back down to yours.

She immediately returns the kiss, but her hand hesitates, barely resting on your hip.

You playfully bite her bottom lip before locking eyes with her. “Don’t hold back,” you insist.

To your delight, she doesn’t.

The fingers on your hip sink in, gripping hard as she pushes you back against the wall of the lift with a resonating thud. Just when you think she’s about to kiss you again, she not only matches your move by biting down on your bottom lip, she presses her knee between your legs and uses her grip on your hip to drag your aching center up along her thick thigh.

The moan that spills from your parted lips is wanton, but you don’t forget your manners. “That’s it, baby,” you praise.

It’s clear she likes that praise. The little growl that rumbles from her chest might be her fighting it, but the way she rubs her own clothed core against your thigh is evidence enough.

Her mouth returns to yours, tongue delving inside hungrily. Her hand relinquishes its death grip on your hip to slide up your back, forcing you away from the wall and closer against her body. She doesn’t relent the pace of rubbing her thigh between your legs, nor her own grinding along yours.

Her fingers slip through the hair at your scalp, and without warning, she grabs it in her fist and yanks. Hard.

Your head falls back, breaking the kiss. The back of your head hits the metal wall behind you, but the sound is deafened by the almost guttural sound that rips from your chest.

Sharp teeth run along your chin to your neck as she continues to grind against you. She nips along the column of your throat, each bite timed with the rocking of her hips and the breathless moans pouring from your agape mouth.

“Fuck, that’s so good,” you huff out, your breath ragged as you try to meet her pace, your hips rolling and rocking.

She says nothing, mouth too focused on kissing and nipping at your neck. As she sucks particularly hard at the soft spot just above your collarbone, you’re certain there will be marks. Pretty, perfect marks you’ll wear with the utmost pride.

When she releases the death grip she has on your hair, you slowly let your head lower until your foreheads touch. Those beautiful gray eyes are glazed over, and you’re certain you’ve never seen a sight more beautiful. However, as good as the mutual humping is- which is anything but dry- you need more.

“You know–” you huff between your mutual grinding, “I wore– a skirt– for a reason.”

That bit of attitude seems to catch her off guard, her movement faltering, but she quickly takes the hint and brings her hand up to press two fingertips against the plush of your bottom lip.

You know what she wants, but you’re gonna make her use her words so you can hear that sinful voice of hers.

“Suck,” she demands, her voice husky and thick with desire.

You smile against the pads of her fingers, giving them a quick, chaste kiss before parting your lips.

She’s quick to slide them in, but you take your time, teasing her, slowly drawing circles around those thick digits with the tip of your tongue. She watches your mouth intently, and you can tell she’s growing impatient, her movements becoming more erratic.

You take the last length of her fingers fully into your mouth and suck, making a show of softly closing your eyes and moaning.

“Shit,” she groans so quietly you almost miss it.

When you open your eyes to meet hers, she slowly slides her fingers from your mouth, looking as if she’s fighting the urge to eat you alive right then and there.

You’d let her if she tried.

She backs away slightly, giving her just enough space to slip her hand between your bodies, but her eyes remain fixated on your expression. She’s tauntingly slow as she slips her hand beneath the hem of your skirt and slides it further up your thighs.

It’s maddening, and you can’t help but wonder if it's intentional. Like she’s trying to goad you. If only you could get in that gorgeous head of hers and read her mind. Those thoughts quickly escape you when her digits finally reach the apex of your thighs.

Both of you gasp in unison; you from the blissful contact, she from the surprise that you had gone sans panties that day. Little does she know, you did it for this exact situation.

She dips just the tip of her middle finger between your wet folds.

Your knees threaten to buckle, and your breath hitches. You grasp her cape with both hands- not only to catch yourself, but to pull her lips back to yours before the impending whimper can escape your mouth.

She kisses you just as slowly as her finger teases your entrance. And it seems the little whines that make their way unbidden from your throat only serve to encourage her to continue the delightful torture.

She breaks the kiss before you’re ready and even has the audacity to pull back when you attempt to recapture her mouth with your own.

Just when did she become the one in charge?

You narrow your eyes at her, trying to look in control, but each little teasing touch between your legs makes it beyond challenging. It’s damn near impossible. And the undeniably sexy look in her eyes- the purely carnal lust- is not helping your situation.

But you’ve got to try.

“Stop teas-” Before you can finish your demand, she thrusts her middle finger inside you, clear to the last knuckle. It rips a startled cry of pleasure from you.

That had to be intentional.

But you’ve got no time or brain power to retaliate, because she immediately starts sliding that gloriously thick finger in and out at the perfect pace.

You try desperately to keep your eyes open and your mouth shut, but Janna- she looks so fucking hot and is making you feel so damn good. And when you feel her slip nearly all the way out to allow another finger to join, you know it’s a losing battle. As she slowly slides back in, you let your eyes fall shut and bring your lips to rest against the scars that decorate her neck. You're not about to let her see you falling apart so easily.

As her fingers bottom out inside you, filling you so completely, you’re certain there’s no way you could ever take more from her.

And you don't need to either. She feels so- damn- good!

It doesn’t take long for her to work you up, pumping and curling her fingers just right. There’s no doubt she’s experienced. This isn’t her first rodeo.

You try to kiss, suck, and bite her neck to hide the moans she’s pulling from you, but you’re so close now.

So blissfully close.

You slip a hand up to grasp her bicep, feeling the muscle beneath flex with her effort.

You nearly cry from desperation and disappointment when those expert fingers slip out, but when you feel her rubbing her thumb against them, you know exactly what she’s doing.

Both digits slip right back in, but this time her thumb joins the endeavor, pressing gently against your swollen clit and smearing it with your juices.

“Oh baby, that’s good,” you practically cry.

She picks right up where she left off, making circles around your clit with each thrust of her fingers. She brings her mouth to your ear, yet another move taken from your book, and somewhere in the back of your delirium-induced mind you hear her rasp, “Say my name when you cum.”

She didn’t even need to ask.

The sound of her husky voice, the warm breath against your ear, and the perfectly timed strokes along your clit send you falling off the edge and right into euphoria.

“Oh fuck, Sevika!” you cry out, certainly loud enough for anyone remaining in the building to hear.

Neither of you could care less.

Every muscle in your body pulls taut, your fingers gripping her bicep threatening to break skin, before quickly releasing in bursts of mind-numbing pleasure.

She leans her head back, eyes alight with fascination as she watches you fall apart before her. She continues to fuck you with her fingers, only easing her pace when she catches the way your body jerks and eyes squeeze shut at the overstimulation.

At a tauntingly slow rate, she slides her fingers out of your now drenched pussy. You watch through half-lidded eyes as she brings them to your parted lips.

This time, you don’t make her speak, you just accept her fingers. You don’t make a show either. You couldn’t if you’d wanted- too fucked out. You let her run those wet digits slowly down along your tongue and back out of your mouth. The taste of your own juices invades your mouth, and you know she's enjoying knowing that.

No longer able to hold your own weight, you fall back against the wall of the lift.

But thank Janna you recover enough to catch that rare glimpse of perfection you’d thought about earlier. As she stands there, staring at you, the corner of her mouth curls into a haughty and undeniably sexy smirk.

She crudely wipes the remaining liquid coating her fingers across her pants before reaching beside your head to press the button for the main floor.

All you can do as the two of you descend is fight to stay upright while she simply watches you with the satisfaction of a job well done.

When the lift comes to a halt at the bottom floor, she steps into your space, bringing her lips to your ears again.

“Make sure you wear that skirt for me next time too, baby.”

The way she says that pet name…

She pulls back, offering you one last smug smile before strolling past you and off the lift.

You blink several times, still not completely in your right mind.

Was she playing you the entire time?