#Matthew Keller x reader

[bullet-prooflove]

"Checked myself into the lost and found, What do you know? My baby come for me" from the radio song prompt list with Matthew Keller, please ☺️

Tagging: @rosielou94 d @kmc1989 @toheavenwmydrms @noxytopy

Companion piece to Five Times & Three Minutes

It’s a few months into your recovery that you disappear from Matt’s life. He comes home one night and to find a note on the kitchen table. His fingertips trace over the words, it’s chicken scratch instead of the neat looped italics you used to write with.

It’s due to the injury, it’s one of the deficits that your doctor described. The second bullet had damaged the nerves in your right arm, compromising your motor skills. You’ve been rehabbing since but you’d had a doctor’s appointment today he couldn’t make it to. He guesses the news wasn’t good.

The note, it reads like a resignation letter.

Matty, you’ve written. I’m not going to be any use to you anytime soon so I’ve pulled the rip chord before you could. – Avery.

It’s the terminology that makes it feel like you’ve plunged a knife into his chest.

‘Use’

As if he sees the relationship as transactional.

It’s when he breaks into your doctor’s office later that night and reads your file that he understands what’s triggered you today. The rehab it isn’t helping, the mobility you have right now, that’s as good as it gets.

That means no forgeries, no lockpicking, no sleight of hand.

Life as you knew it was over.

Matt suddenly understands why you left, you’ve always been his partner in crime. He’s never told you you were anything else. He’s tried to show it but sometimes…

You need to hear the words.

And Matt could never say them.

When he gets home, he opens up the cubby hole behind the picture frame, the place where you keep your spare cash and passports. He sifts through them until he can deduce which one is missing.

It’s your real one.

Avery Kincaide.

The life you knew is a con woman is over.

You’re going legit.

Love Keller? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[sonufabitchhhhh]

You Were My Oppressor, But Now You Are My Handler

- Matthew Keller x Reader (White Collar)

Chapter 1: The Best First Impressions, the Worst of Intentions

Masterlist

Y/n walked out of the elevator that morning with an air of confidence that was only slightly faked, Matthew Keller right on her heals. Y/n knew she needed Keller to know that she was in charge and that he wouldn't be able to pull a fast one on her, so she let her slight insecurities about being his handler slip to the back of her mind.

It was a small comfort to her to see that Keller also seemed a little unsure in his new environment; even if he hid it well, y/n could see he was a little insecure too.

He seemed to relax, however, upon seeing Neal. He stalked over to Neal's desk with a grin, heading over to make some biting remark, no doubt. "So Caffrey, not the only criminal in the feds domain anymore... must be killing you to see me here!"

Seeing the stony look on Neal's face, y/n stepped in before the situation escalated. "Keller! My office! You're here to help, not torment Neal." She spoke in a commanding tone, and walked off towards her office, not waiting to see if he was following. Sure enough though, he was trailing along behind her with a dragged out sigh.

-

After an hour or so of pouring over y/n's latest case, Keller had proven himself to be quite useful, providing insight and information that gave them a new perspective on the case.

Keller seemed genuinely interested in helping, and y/n recalled Peter and Neal's advise. Was Keller as interested as he seemed, or was he working some angle that y/n couldn't see yet? So far he'd been patient, keen to learn the ropes, and had given good input - but was it all just a cover for an ulterior motive?

She decided that if Keller was truly attempting to reform, he'd prove himself over time, not in a day. As Peter said, 'guilty until proven innocent'.

"Hey, I think I found that pattern you were looking for in that Sturges case!" Keller looked up from his desk as y/n passed by, bright eyed and apparently eager to please. Neal sat a desk over and also seemed cautious about Keller's behaviour.

"Huh. Nice work Keller. You ready to go see what Sturges has to stay?" Y/n asked, pleasant enough but not overly sweet; she didn't want to praise him too much and let him think he's got it easy.

Keller nodded and the two headed out the building to her car, getting ready to interrogate their suspect.

-

On the way to their suspect's home, y/n and Keller were quiet. It wasn't a comfortable silence though. It was the kind where both were itching to say something just to end the suffocating lack of conversation, and yet neither knew what to say.

They didn't know each other well. In fact, they'd only met once before. Y/n had been on the task force that had put Keller in prison, but they hadn't actually met during that instance. They did, however, meet a week ago - y/n had visited Keller in prison to talk to him about being his handler and all that their relationship would entail.

It was a short meeting, and now that they're spending more time together, they were at a loss on what to talk about.

"So, uhh-,"

"What's-,"

Both seemingly had the same idea and started to speak at the same time. A little flustered, and laughing awkwardly, they tried to start again.

"No, no, you go first!" Keller insisted despite y/n's protests.

"Oh, I was just going to ask how you're liking your first day on the job! Y'know, enjoying being out of prison?" Y/n asked hesitantly. She didn't want to bring up a potentially sore topic, and was still a little suspicious about Keller being so complacent thus far.

"Oh, it's nice. I'm a free- well, semi-free man! Gotta like that." He answered simply, and the silence became tangible again. After another beat of awkward silence, he continued. "Y'know, I was just gonna say, it's not too bad being with the feds. I mean, it could be worse at least."

"Yeah. Well that's good! I'm glad you're settling in a bit."

Both let the silence sink in again, this time resigning to let it stew until it was time to leave the car. It seemed the pair had a lot to learn about each other, and we're far from partners yet. They'd get there though.

-

A/N: so, this is the first official chapter! I hope you're enjoying the story so far, this part was mostly focused on what y/n and Keller's relationship is currently - which is to say it isn't much of a relationship yet! Anyway, hope you're enjoying, let me know any story suggestions in the comments!

Hope you have a great day/night,

~ SonofaBeach

[shoot-the-oneshot]

NEW YEAR NEW PROMPTS!!! Request are open!!! Send em in

- [ ] 74 “Help me set this fucking thing on fire.”

- [ ] 75 “have you eaten today?” “Yeah” “okay have you eaten more than a fruit roll up”

- [ ] 76 “tell me again.”

- [ ] 77 “be my good girl.”

- [ ] 78 “who did it?”

- [ ] 79 “I don’t care where I am in the world I’m with you, I’m right there with you.”

- [ ] 80 “Tell me. Do you plan out all of the dumb stuff you do? Or does it just come naturally?"

- [ ] 81 "I plan but it never goes how I want."

- [ ] 82 “I might have done some bad things in my life but you are by far the best.

- [ ] 83 "I gave a dude your number, he wouldn't stop bothering me, give em' hell,"

- [ ] 84 "do you have my sad hoodie? I need my sad hoodie,"

- [ ] 85 "oh really?" / "yes, really." / "lying doesn't suit you, sweetheart”

- [ ] 86 “Weird way to propose, but ok."

- [ ] 87 Why do you insist on giving me pet names?

- [ ] 88 "you? beat me? what a joke,"

- [ ] 89 of course the flowers I got you were the best, you think you can do better?'

[toasttt11]

introducing carina

Carina has always been the grumpy one of her family, more short tempered and just not a big people person, unlike her brothers who are both like rays of sunshine. The whole family always adores how different Carina and the boys are.

Carina plays with the number two and if anyone asks she just says she picked a random number but truthfully she picked it because of her two brothers but she would never admit that.

Matthew always looked up to his older sister, she was exactly how he wanted to he, when he started playing hockey he learned a lot from watching his sister, he chose his number 23 because that’s her birthday.

Philip has always been the more silly one out of the siblings but he can easily be a protective of his little siblings.

Matthew and Philip’s favorite sibling is easily Carina, it’s something they both know and admit. The two absolutely adore their sister and can be pretty protective of her.

Carina tends to keep people at arms length just not liking letting people close to her, but when she joined the Sabers her teammates grew on her over the years. She couldn’t not be close to the people she spends most of her time with and ends up eating most her meals with too, she didn’t want them to grow on her but they did.

The Buffalo Sabers is a genuinely younger team most of the players are newer to the league and quite young, Carina is older than at least half the team and they all grew on her, she wouldn’t ever tell them but they end up like little brothers to her.

Carina calls her teammates leaches as they never seem to go away, the whole team loves Carina and her grumpy personality, a lot of them try to her Carina to laugh or smile because of them.

Joseph Woll was someone who always puzzled Carina, He never seemed bothered or intimidated by her glaring face or just the general grumpiness from her if anything it seemed he enjoyed it and that confused her a lot, she didn’t like how he seem to affect her and tried so hard to keep him arms length away from her.

Carina is very short tempered and tends to get at a lot penalties, and she does get in quite a lot a lot of fights on the ice that she easily wins having being taught how to fight most her life.

Once she signed a contract extension she bought her own house in Buffalo, she hated living in an apartment but didn’t want to buy a house if she didn’t know she was getting resigned with the team. She bought a house that definitely has a lot room for just one person but it has a lot of it’s own land and a it’s little bit away from any other houses so she has her own peace and quiet. But many of her teammates come and bother her at her house so she doesn’t get as much peace and quiet as she would like too.

When Joseph and Carina get together almost ever shelf and table in her house has a Lego flowers on it, Joseph is always making her Lego flowers and they are scattered all over her house.

[wannabehockeygf]

cut my hair - matthew tkachuk

part of the think later fic series

"Just wanna cut my hair Lose myself Make you sweat Go out and get messed up Find myself in your bed"

***

request: “heyyyyy me again. Would you be able to do another Matthew Tkachuk for cut my hair? a lil angsty and smuty with a happy ending. Thank you!”

summary: after being dumped, you make it your mission to have him regret everything. word count: 9.2k pairing: matthew tkachuk x fem!reader warnings: 18+ NSFW! Unprotected sex, talk about sex in the past, a lot of slightly kinky shit (biting and stuff like that, not too crazy), creampie, alcohol, sex in public (but sort of hidden?) degradation & degrading talk, toxic relationship. notes: - i actually started this a few days ago & then i got a request for something similar so i tweaked it. girl u read my mind.

-^ my loyal requester. please don’t worry about sending too much in, trust me I love you for it, but don’t expect things too quickly ❤️ - ^^ this is barely edited or proof read. i tried but there's gonna be repetitive shit & i'll probably end up tweaking it but here it is yayyy - haven't written smut in a while 😋 - guys as much as i love chucky & quinn i really would like to write about people from the team i support the most...(the leafs if you somehow couldn't tell?) so i'm gonna be focusing on them for a bit & if you would like to request one (or clayton keller, he's my exception) please do! - ^ that being said, i will start working on qhxga pt.3 soon. - in light of everything going on, i would like to clarify matthew has not drinken anything in this despite him being in a bar & this being fiction. PLEASE don't drink and drive. ***

You’re mad.

You’re mad about a lot of things. Which is weird, because usually, you’re not mad, you just bask in your misery all day.

You’re too touchy-feely for your own good. The sad girl act is getting old, and you know it.

At least, that’s what he told you.

“You’re so fucking dramatic! Like, holy shit, can you just let go for once and have fun? Because that’s it. That’s all we’re doing, we’re having fun. I don’t give a fuck about your feelings, I’m not the guy you’ll marry!”

The lump in your throat seems to grow by the second as you try to speak. “So what, you’re saying we should break up?”

Matthew scoffs over the line, and you can basically imagine him pacing his apartment, tugging at the curly strands of his hair as if it could make him think more clearly. “We were never dating! But if you really want to see it that way, then, fuck yes, let’s break up.”

The phone call ends with a click, but the sound echoes in your head like a slammed door. Matthew’s words hang in the air, and for a second, you just stand there, staring at your phone screen as if expecting an apology to pop up. But it doesn’t. Because he never does that.

You feel the burn of unshed tears behind your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. Not this time. His voice still rings in your ears, mocking you. You’re so dramatic. Maybe he’s right, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. You chew your lip, pacing your small apartment. Your reflection catches your eye in the hallway mirror—your long hair falling in waves past your shoulders, the way Matthew always said he liked it. Suddenly, the sight of it makes your stomach twist with resentment.

He doesn’t care about you. He never did.

The anger rushes through your veins, fueling you, pushing you towards the scissors in your bathroom drawer. You grip them tightly, the cool metal biting into your palm as you lift them to your hair. He liked it long, huh? A bitter laugh escapes your throat. Without giving yourself time to overthink, you hack off the first chunk, watching it fall into the sink. It feels… freeing. With every cut, it’s like you’re snipping away the pieces of yourself that he’s picked apart. The version of you that wanted him to love her. Gone. The version that begged for scraps of his attention. Gone.

When you’re done, you barely recognize yourself. The hair that once framed your face is gone, leaving behind a sharp, choppy cut that makes you look fiercer, harder. It feels good.

The little black dress hangs in the back of your closet, practically taunting you. You haven’t worn it in months—Matthew hated it. Said it was too much, too revealing, that it would draw attention. But tonight, that’s exactly what you want. You pull it on, the soft fabric clinging to your curves in all the right places. You glance in the mirror once more, a smirk curling your lips. Let him see what he’s missing.

“Let’s see who’s too dramatic now,” you mutter, grabbing your purse. The night is still young, and you know exactly where he’ll be. The bar on 5th Street, right near your apartment—his favorite, your least favorite. It always smells like spilled beer and desperation. Fitting, considering that’s where you met him.

Your heels click against the pavement with each determined step outside. You’re buzzing with anticipation, nerves, and spite. It’s like electricity under your skin, the kind that makes your hands shake but your heart pound in excitement. There’s something so satisfying about this, about showing up like this, looking like you don’t give a damn when, really, you give so many. Too many.

You try not to think about what he’ll say when he sees you. You can already imagine his eyebrows shooting up, that condescending smirk tugging at his lips. “What the hell did you do to your hair?” he’d say, because that’s Matthew—always focusing on the superficial, on the surface, never diving deeper. But tonight, you don’t want him to dive. You want him to drown.

The bar looms ahead, its neon sign flickering like some kind of cheap welcome–you know he’ll be here. You hesitate for only a second before pushing the door open, the familiar smell of alcohol and sweat hitting you like a wave. Your eyes scan the room, searching, until you find him. He’s leaning against the bar, laughing with some girl, unopened Corona in hand. He doesn’t see you at first, but you see him.

Your stomach twists in knots, anger and nerves swirling together. For a brief moment, you wonder if this was a mistake. If you’re being too... well, dramatic. But then his voice from earlier echoes in your head: “I don’t give a fuck about your feelings.”

Your spine straightens, resolve hardening like steel.

You walk toward him, every step feeling like an eternity. He turns, and there it is—his eyes widen, confusion flashing across his face before that stupid smirk settles in. He looks you up and down, taking in the dress, the hair, the new you. You can feel the anger bubbling up again, but there’s something else lurking beneath it—a twisted satisfaction at the way his mouth hangs open slightly, like he doesn’t know what to say. You arch a brow, waiting for the inevitable comment. He doesn't disappoint.

“What the hell did you do to your hair?”

There it is. Just like you predicted, and somehow, it still stings. Of course, he’d focus on that first. Not the fact that you showed up here looking like a goddamn queen in the dress he hates, not the fact that you’ve changed in a way he can’t even begin to comprehend—no, it’s always the surface with him.

You cross your arms, throwing every ounce of defiance into your stance. “I cut it,” you say, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Thanks for noticing.”

Matthew’s eyes narrow, his smirk faltering just for a second before he recovers. “Yeah, I noticed. What, you having a meltdown or something?”

There’s the laugh. The one that makes you feel small, like you’re just a joke to him. Your blood boils at the sound, but you force yourself to keep your expression steady, hiding the tremor in your voice as you reply. “Maybe I am. Or maybe I just got tired of pretending to be the version of me that you liked. Ever think of that?”

He blinks, thrown off by the venom in your words. For a second, you wonder if he’ll apologize, if he’ll say something that softens the sharp edges of this moment. But no. Matthew is Matthew, and his pride won’t let him back down.

“Jesus, you’re really something, huh?” His smirk deepens, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes now—something like recognition, like maybe he’s starting to see the version of you he never bothered to notice. The one that’s done waiting for him to care. “You don’t have to get all dramatic about it. We were just having fun, that’s all.”

Your heart hammers in your chest, each beat like a drum, loud and insistent. He’s standing there, smug and arrogant, as if he still holds some kind of power over you. Like you’re a joke. Like you haven’t just hacked off your hair and thrown on the dress that makes you feel like a goddess in defiance of everything he’s ever said.

And yet, despite the burn of his words, you can’t deny the pull. That stupid, magnetic draw that he has over you. You hate it. You hate him. But there’s something intoxicating about the way he’s looking at you now, a flash of something dangerous in his eyes. Something you recognize all too well.

“I’m dramatic?” Your voice rises, thick with sarcasm, but the pain seeps through, like a tear you can’t stitch up fast enough. “You’re the one who just broke up with me—or, sorry—broke up with me from the relationship that apparently never existed. So excuse me if I’m a little dramatic, Matthew.”

He leans back against the bar, taking another sip of his drink, his gaze never leaving yours. There’s that look again. You know it well—half-annoyed, half-amused, like you’re entertaining him somehow, like this whole mess is just another game to him. His lips twitch, like he’s fighting a smirk. "Well, if you're gonna throw a tantrum every time something doesn’t go your way, maybe this is for the best.”

Your hands ball into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms as the anger bubbles beneath your skin, ready to burst. You want to scream at him, to tell him he’s an asshole, that he’ll never deserve you. But the words lodge in your throat, tangled up with the hurt, and instead, all you can do is glare at him. God, you hate him. You hate how he knows exactly what to say to get under your skin, to make you feel small, even now.

But as much as you want to storm out, to prove that you’re better than this, you can’t. You’re rooted to the spot, locked in place by the storm brewing between you. The air feels electric, like something is about to snap, and you can feel it—this pull between the anger and something else, something darker and heavier.

You take a step forward, closing the distance between you two. The smell of his cologne—woodsy, warm—hits you, and it pisses you off even more because it brings back memories you don’t want. Late nights tangled in his sheets, the way his lips felt against your neck, the stupid, tender moments that don’t match this Matthew standing in front of you, smirking like none of it mattered. Like you don’t matter.

“God, you’re such a prick,” you mutter, your voice low, barely more than a whisper. But he hears it. His smirk falters for just a second, and in that moment, you see it—something cracks behind his eyes. A flicker of uncertainty, maybe even guilt. But it’s gone as quickly as it came.

“Oh, I’m the prick? That’s rich coming from the girl who’s been throwing herself at me for months,” he fires back, his voice dripping with mockery. His words sting, but you don’t flinch. You’re done letting him hurt you. Not tonight, but then he keeps then talking. “You wanna know why I never saw this as anything more than fun? Because you pull this shit. Every time. You get all clingy and needy, and it’s fucking exhausting."

You stand there, staring at him, his words a knife twisting deeper and deeper into your chest with every syllable. Clingy. Needy. Exhausting. They echo in your head, bouncing around like cruel little taunts, each one sharpening your anger until it feels like it’s going to spill out of you, red-hot and uncontrollable.

Clingy? You’ve been "clingy?"

You almost laugh out loud at the absurdity of it, but instead, the sound that escapes you is more of a strangled scoff. How dare he? How dare he act like you’re the problem? Like you’ve been the one hanging on too tight, when all you ever did was try to be close to him. All you wanted was to feel wanted by him, but apparently, that made you exhausting.

The room feels smaller, the air heavier, like the world’s closing in on you. Or maybe that’s just your body’s way of processing the tidal wave of rage, hurt, and—goddamn it—desire that’s pulling you in too many directions at once. You can barely think straight, your heart pounding in your ears as his smirk only deepens, like he knows he’s hit a nerve and is more than happy to twist the knife in further.

Exhausting? You can feel your blood boiling beneath your skin, heating you from the inside out. No, you’re not exhausting—you’re furious.

He has the audacity to stand there, cool as ever, his gaze sliding down your body as if this entire thing is nothing more than a minor inconvenience for him. You want to slap him. You want to scream at him. You want to walk out of this bar and never see him again. But instead, you’re rooted to the spot, because there’s something else simmering beneath the rage—a sick, twisted pull that’s keeping you here, stuck in this toxic mess of a situation, and it’s only getting harder to ignore.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you swallow hard, trying to compose yourself before you lose it completely. “Clingy, huh? Is that what you call wanting a fucking relationship? Needing someone to actually give a shit about you?”

Your words are sharp, biting, but there’s a tremor beneath them, the anger barely masking the hurt that’s been clawing at you since the phone call. Matthew doesn’t miss it. His eyes flicker, just for a second, like he almost feels bad, but then his expression hardens again, that irritating, cocky grin sliding back into place as if he’s made of stone.

“Yeah, well, maybe if you didn’t act like the world’s ending every time I don’t text you back, we wouldn’t be here,” he retorts, his voice laced with mockery. He takes another step closer, his body towering over you, the heat of him pressing into your space, but you stand your ground, refusing to be the one to flinch first. “You get so goddamn dramatic about everything. I didn’t sign up for that shit.”

His words should make you snap, should make you storm out of this bar with your dignity intact, but instead, you’re frozen. Your heart is hammering in your chest, but not just from anger. No, it’s that stupid, horrible, unbearable attraction. The one that makes you want to punch him and kiss him all at once. The scent of his cologne strengthens, the same one that used to cling to your sheets after he’d sneak out in the morning. The same one that’s tied to every bad decision you’ve ever made where he’s concerned. And God, you hate him for it.

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, voice low and tight, but your throat is closing in around the words. “I’ve been throwing myself at you? Right. Like you weren’t the one showing up at my place at two in the morning, wanting to ‘hang out’ when we both know what that meant.”

His smirk falters again, but not for long. He steps even closer, close enough now that you can see the flicker of something darker in his eyes. A spark that you know all too well. The same one that got you into this mess in the first place. You shouldn’t still be here, you shouldn’t still be entertaining this bullshit, but it’s like your body and mind are at war, and your body’s starting to win. Your fists clench at your sides as he leans in, close enough that his breath brushes your skin when he speaks.

“You loved every second of it,” he says, his voice low and rough, sending a shiver down your spine. “Don’t act like you didn’t. Like you didn’t beg for it.”

That’s it. That’s the final straw. Something inside you snaps, and before you can think better of it, your hand lashes out, shoving him hard in the chest. He barely stumbles, but the shock in his eyes is enough to make you feel a small, fleeting victory. “Fuck you, Matthew,” you spit out, your voice trembling. “I didn’t beg for shit. You’re the one who kept coming back, like some... like some goddamn parasite!”

The second the words leave your mouth, you expect him to snap back, to yell, to argue. But instead, his eyes darken, his jaw clenches, and there’s something in the way he’s looking at you now—like he’s two seconds away from either tearing into you or kissing you. And you hate that you can’t tell which one you want more.

The air between you is thick, suffocating. You’re breathing hard, your chest rising and falling rapidly, and he’s right there, barely inches away, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his body. And then, as if some invisible thread snaps between you, he moves.

In an instant, his hands are on you, grabbing your wrist and pulling you forward, and before you can protest or even think, his lips crash into yours.

It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s desperate, angry, a mess of teeth and tongues and heat. You want to push him away, to scream at him, to throw something, but instead, you find yourself kissing him back just as hard, your body betraying every rational thought in your head. It’s like everything inside you is on fire, all the rage and hurt and lust combusting into one reckless, overwhelming need.

His hands are rough as they grab your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you gasp into his mouth, your fingers tangling in the front of his shirt as if you’re trying to ground yourself, to keep from getting swept up in the tornado of emotions swirling around you. But it’s no use. You’re already lost in it.

The kiss deepens, and you can taste his signature mint gum on his breath, can feel the urgency in the way he’s touching you, like he can’t get enough. Like he needs you as much as you hate needing him right now. Your back hits the bar, and he presses into you, his body solid and warm, and it feels so familiar, so maddeningly familiar that you could scream.

This is wrong. This is so, so wrong.

But you don’t stop. Neither of you do. Because even though you know this is a bad idea, even though you know you’ll regret this in the morning, right now, it feels like the only thing keeping you from falling apart completely.

His hands slide down to your hips, gripping tightly, and you moan into his mouth, your body arching against his. The sound makes him groan, low and rough, and he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and wild, his lips swollen from the kiss. “You wanna get out of here, princess?” he whispers, his voice rough, “Or did you want to put on a show for everyone? You were obviously planning on it, with this slutty little thing.” he punctates his last words by snapping your visible bra strap against your shoulder, making you gasp.

Your breath hitches at the sting of his words, but there’s a part of you that thrills at the edge of humiliation, at the way he’s using your vulnerability against you. It’s twisted, but it’s like a key unlocking something deep inside you. You’ve been fighting so hard, trying to stay in control, but with him so close, with him touching you and talking to you like this, everything unravels.

“Get a grip, Matthew,” you manage to snarl, though the tremor in your voice betrays you. “You don’t get to act like you’re above this when you’re the one who dragged me into this mess.”

His eyes flash with something dark, almost predatory. “Dragged you? You came running. Don’t pretend you didn’t want this, didn’t want me to notice you. This whole act—” he gestures vaguely at your dress and hair, “—is just you trying to get me to see you. Well, guess what? I see you. And you know what? I don’t fucking care.”

His words hit you like a punch to the gut, but you can’t back down now. You’re in too deep, and the anger mixing with your lust makes you reckless. “I don’t need you to care,” you snap, grabbing his collar and pulling him closer. “I just need you to fuck me right now. Show me how much you don’t care.”

His lips are on yours again before you can even think, stealing your breath and your sanity all at once. You hate him for it. God, you hate how easily he can undo you, how quickly he makes you forget why you’re angry in the first place. But even as the thought crosses your mind, you’re kissing him back, harder this time, as if the sheer force of it will somehow knock sense into both of you. Spoiler: it doesn’t.

Your body presses up against his, the heat between you almost unbearable, and you can feel him smirking into the kiss, the bastard. You want to wipe that cocky look off his face, but at the same time, you want to see just how far he’s willing to push you. It’s like every nerve in your body is buzzing, caught between wanting to slap him and wanting to strip him down and ride him until neither of you can remember your own names. The worst part? You’re not sure which one you’ll end up doing first.

He bites down on your bottom lip, sharp and deliberate, and you gasp, the pain only fueling the fire inside you. "That all you got, princess?" he mutters against your mouth, his voice a low, mocking growl. It’s the same tone that’s always driven you insane, always made you want to throw something at him—and now, it’s making you wet. Great.

You narrow your eyes, wrenching yourself away from his mouth long enough to glare at him. “Don’t call me that,” you spit, hating how breathless you sound, hating how much you’re giving away with every ragged inhale.

He just grins, the kind of grin that makes you want to slap him, but instead, you find your hand curling into the front of his shirt, yanking him closer. “What, don’t like your cute little nickname? I thought you loved attention, baby.”

“I don’t need your fucking attention,” you shoot back, though the lie burns your throat on the way out. “I just need you to shut up and make yourself useful for once.”

He chuckles darkly, his fingers digging into your hips with bruising force, and something about the way he’s looking at you makes your stomach flip. You hate how easy it is for him to get under your skin, how quickly he can strip away all the walls you’ve built up around yourself. “Useful, huh?” he repeats, his voice dripping with mockery as he leans down, his lips brushing against your ear. “Funny, I don’t remember you complaining the last time I had you screaming my name.”

Your breath catches in your throat, but you refuse to let him see how much that rattles you. “That was a fluke,” you mutter, though your voice wavers. “Let’s not pretend it meant anything.”

That was a fluke? Did you really just try to sell that lie? The memory of his name leaving your lips—no, leaving your throat in a desperate, pleading gasp—burns behind your eyelids. You can still feel the ghost of his hands on your skin, the way he pulled sounds from you that you didn’t even know you were capable of making. And now, here you are, trying to convince him, and yourself, that it didn’t mean a thing.

Pathetic.

The silence stretches for a beat too long, your throat tight with the effort of holding back all the things you want to say, all the venom you want to spit right in his smug, infuriating face. He’s just standing there, practically vibrating with amusement, like he knows he’s won this round. And that—that’s what sends your anger spiking again, turning into something molten.

He leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear, and you shiver despite yourself. “Fluke, huh?” His voice is low, dangerous, and you hate that it sends a ripple of something dark and wanting straight through your core. “So, if I touched you right now—if I slipped my fingers under that pathetic excuse of a dress—I'd find you soaking wet by accident?”

You hate him. You hate him so much, it hurts.

Without thinking, you pull back just enough to whisper, “Let’s get out of here.” Your voice is rough, breathless, and you hate that he’s the reason for it.

His eyes flash with something dark, something feral, and he smirks down at you, his lips swollen and red. “Yeah?” he taunts, his hands still tight on your hips. “You want me that bad?”

You grit your teeth, hating how he twists everything, how he always knows exactly where to hit. “Fuck you,” you bite out, your nails digging into his shoulders. “Take me somewhere, or I’ll find someone who will.”

His grip on you tightens dangerously, his eyes flashing with anger and something else, something possessive. “Over my dead fucking body.”

Before you can blink, he’s pulling you away from the bar, his hand gripping yours tightly, practically dragging you through the throngs of people. You stumble after him, your head spinning, your body still buzzing with adrenaline and anger and lust. The music pounds around you, the heat from the crowd suffocating, but all you can focus on is the way his hand feels in yours, the way your heart pounds in your chest like it’s trying to break free.

It’s reckless. It’s insane. And it’s exactly what you need.

The air outside should be cooler–but it’s not. It’s humid, sticky, and uncomfortably warm, Florida summers coming into full effect. The night threatens to swallow you both whole as he hauls you down a side alley, the noise of the club fading but the adrenaline still roaring through your veins. Every step you take feels like it’s leading you further into the eye of the storm, and even though you know there’s no going back now, you can’t stop. You don’t want to stop.

“What’s the rush?” you sneer, yanking at his hand, though not hard enough to actually break his grip. “Afraid I’ll change my mind?”

He glances back at you, that infuriating smirk tugging at the corner of his swollen lips. “Nah, princess. I’m just getting us somewhere quiet so I don’t have to listen to your whining while I fuck the attitude out of you.”

Your throat tightens, a hot flush crawling up your neck as you realize where this is headed. A dingy alley behind a club, dimly lit and reeking of stale beer and cigarette smoke—this is where it’s going to happen? Your body is screaming at you to care, to turn around and leave, but your legs keep moving forward, drawn to him like a moth to the flame.

He pulls you into a narrow alcove, barely wide enough for both of you, and the second you’re tucked inside, he’s on you. His body presses against yours, firm and demanding, and it’s all you can do to keep your knees from buckling as his hands grip your waist like he owns you.

This is ridiculous. How did you end up here? Again. Every damn time. You swore after the last time that you were done—that you wouldn’t let him crawl back into your space, under your skin, and wrap his filthy, bruising grip around your heart. But here you are, yet again, like some stupid moth drawn to the inferno that is Matthew Tkachuk.

You want to shove him away, to scream in his face that you’re not the girl who falls for this. Except, you know better. You are exactly the girl who falls for this. The one who caves when he looks at you with those maddening blue eyes. The girl who lets him wreck her in alleyways behind clubs in the sticky heat of a Florida night, knowing damn well how this will end: messily.

“Still pretending, huh?” His voice rumbles low against your ear, mocking and sharp. He’s pressed so close you can feel every word vibrate through you, igniting your nerves like a lit fuse. "You keep telling yourself you hate this, but you're so fucking obvious. Look at you—" he pauses, his fingers digging into your hips as he pulls your body tighter against his, "—practically melting into me. If you were any more desperate, you’d be begging."

The insult should sting. It should make you slap him, curse him out, anything—but instead, a fire blooms in your chest, fierce and hot, because the bastard’s not entirely wrong. And isn’t that just the worst part? He knows how to press every button, dig under your skin like it’s his damn playground, and worse yet, you let him. Every. Single. Time.

“You’re so full of yourself, you know that?” Your voice is breathless, each word shaky and ragged, but at least you still manage to get them out. “You think you’ve got me figured out? Please. The only reason I’m here is because no one else in this godforsaken place knows how to shut you up.”

The second the words leave your mouth, you regret them—not because you don’t mean it (you do)—but because it only serves to fuel him. That cocky grin spreads across his face, slow and deliberate, like he knows he’s won something. His eyes flicker with amusement, the kind that makes you want to punch him in the throat.

“Shut me up?” he repeats, one brow arching. He leans in, lips brushing your ear as he speaks, voice low and dripping with arrogance. “Funny, you didn’t seem so eager to shut me up the last time I had you moaning my name loud enough to wake up half the fucking city. So, what’s the plan this time? You gonna play hard to get until you’re dripping for me again?”

Heat rushes to your face, your pulse racing at the way he’s goading you. The memory of that night comes rushing back with startling clarity—the way he made you unravel piece by piece, the sounds he dragged out of you, your body shaking in his hands. No. Not again. You grit your teeth, fighting back the whirlwind of feelings that threatens to consume you.

“God, you really are delusional,” you bite out, shoving at his chest, though it’s mostly for show. His body barely moves under your weak attempt to push him off. “I’m not here because I want you. I’m here because I pity you. You always need someone to tell you what a good job you’re doing, don’t you, Tkachuk? Can’t go five minutes without being validated.”

It’s a low blow, you know it. But you’re playing dirty, because that’s what this is—dirty, ugly, and twisted beyond recognition. His expression darkens for a split second, and you think maybe you’ve gotten through that thick skull of his. But then his grip on your waist tightens painfully, and suddenly you’re pinned against the wall, your back pressing hard against the brick harder, the air punched out of your lungs by the force.

“Oh, I don’t need validation from you, princess,” he snarls, his face inches from yours now. His lips curl in that infuriating smirk, all teeth and malice, and it sends a shiver down your spine. “I get that plenty from everyone else. You’re just the one who can’t seem to keep your legs closed when I’m around.”

You hate that his words stirs something in you, some deep, primal urge you’d rather ignore. He can see it too, the way your breath catches, the faint flush that creeps up your neck. Every scathing insult, every venomous remark felt like a bruise that you both pressed harder into because neither of you could seem to stop. And worse, some traitorous part of you doesn’t want to stop. You’re furious—at him, at yourself, at how easily you let him turn you into someone else entirely. Someone who gets off on the ugly, spiteful mess you make together.

But what do you do when that mess feels so fucking good?

Your thoughts swirl, a chaotic storm, as his eyes bore into yours, dark and predatory, daring you to do something—anything. God, how do you always end up here? You swore you were done. You told yourself that the last time he fucked you against a wall like you were something to be used and discarded. You’ve never been able to stay away, though, and the worst part? He knows it.

“You’re disgusting,” you hiss, the words tearing from your throat as if that could somehow free you from the pull he has on you. “You think you can talk to me like that and I’ll still—” But your words die in your throat as his hand slides up your side, fingers pushing over the straps of your dress. The sensation makes you jump, a sharp gasp escaping before you can bite it back. Goddamn him.

His lips curve into a wicked grin, eyes narrowing like a predator who’s caught the scent of blood. “Still pretending you don’t like this?” he breathes, his voice a slow, dangerous drawl that rakes over your skin. His other hand trails lower, brushing the inside of your thigh, and your body betrays you—your legs quiver, and he feels it. Of course, he does. “Tell me again how much you hate this,” he mocks, his lips grazing your ear, the words sending a shudder down your spine. “Go ahead. Convince yourself you don’t want my hands all over you right now.”

I hate this. I hate him. You keep repeating it, as if the words could solidify and become truth, as if you could convince your traitorous body to listen. But no matter how hard you try to summon any real anger, all that rises is a wave of heat that feels like it's going to swallow you whole. You feel him smirk against your skin, his breath hot on your neck, and it makes something in you snap.

"God, you're so fucking predictable," you sneer, even though your voice trembles. "Always gotta prove you're the big man, huh? Does it get tiring, being this pathetic?"

You’re trying, trying so hard to dig your heels in, to maintain some sense of power in this wretched game you’ve both played a hundred times before. But you know—he knows—it’s crumbling fast. His hand is already inching higher, under your skirt, rough fingers ghosting along the inside of your thigh, and every ounce of resolve you cling to feels like it's slipping through your fingers.

Don’t react, you tell yourself. Don’t give him the satisfaction. But then his fingers brush the edge of your panties, and your whole body jerks involuntarily, a shuddering gasp escaping your lips before you can stop it. And there it is. The crack in your armor, the proof that despite all your sharp words, your body is already begging for him.

"Still got that smart mouth, huh?" His voice is velvet laced with venom, a dangerous drawl that makes your skin tingle. "It’s funny, you talk such a big game, but I’m pretty sure I can feel how much you want this. You’re soaked."

His words slam into you, making your cheeks burn with humiliation, but there’s no denying it. You can feel it—the heat pooling between your legs, the dampness that betrays everything you’ve been trying to deny. It’s pathetic, really. How he can reduce you to this, turn you inside out with just a few touches and that goddamn voice.

“I fucking hate you,” you hiss, pushing at his chest again, but the movement is weak, half-hearted. You’re shaking—whether from rage, lust, or some twisted cocktail of both, you don’t even know anymore. But he doesn’t move, not even an inch. Instead, he presses closer, so close you can feel every inch of him against you, hard and insistent.

“Yeah?” His lips curl into a smirk, eyes dark and glinting with amusement. “Funny how hate looks a lot like you grinding on me, sweetheart. You sure you don’t want to rethink that?”

Your body answers before your brain can. Without meaning to, your hips roll against him, just a slight shift, but enough to make his breath hitch. And God, the satisfaction that flares in your chest at that tiny victory is intoxicating. But it’s short-lived, because suddenly you’re hyper-aware of where you are—pressed against a brick wall in the sticky heat of a dimly lit alley, where anyone could walk by at any moment.

Your pulse spikes with a new kind of anxiety. “Wait,” you breathe, suddenly feeling exposed, raw. You push at him again, harder this time. “Not here. Someone could—”

But Matthew doesn’t even blink. If anything, his grin widens, a wicked gleam in his eyes as he leans in closer, his breath hot on your ear. “Oh, what’s this? Now you’re getting shy? That’s cute.” His fingers rub your thigh, a deliberate, maddening slowness that makes you want to scream. “Don’t tell me the idea of someone catching us is what’s really got you worked up.”

Your heart pounds in your chest, a dizzying mix of arousal and panic swirling in your veins. You’ve never been this close to losing control in public before, and the idea of someone seeing you like this—needy, desperate, coming undone under Matthew’s hands—it sends a jolt of fear straight to your core. Although you’d deny it, there’s a tiny part of you, buried deep, that doesn’t hate it.

“Matthew, I’m serious,” you manage, though your voice is strained, shaky. “We can’t—”

“Oh, now you care about getting caught?” he cuts you off, amusement dripping from every word. “Come on, don’t act like this is the first time we’ve done something reckless. Admit it—you like it.” His hand slips underneath your panties, pressing against the heat there, and your knees nearly buckle. “You like knowing someone might see what a filthy mess you are for me.”

A soft, involuntary whimper escapes your lips, and it’s like throwing gasoline on a fire. His grip tightens, his body pressing harder against yours, pinning you firmly in place. You can feel him—all of him—and it only makes the ache between your legs worse. Your body is betraying you at every turn, no matter how much your mind is screaming at you to stop.

“Filthy mess?” You force out a bitter laugh, your chest heaving, trying desperately to regain some sense of control, but your body is betraying you at every turn. You can feel the wetness between your legs, undeniable, a humiliating testament to just how much he affects you. “Coming from the guy who begged to get his dick sucked the last time? Please. You’re so easy, Matthew. One touch and you’re practically falling apart like a teenager.”

His eyes darken at the insult, that dangerous spark flaring behind them, and you know you’ve hit a nerve. But instead of backing off, he leans in, his lips grazing your ear as he speaks, his breath hot and ragged. “Keep running that mouth, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and lethal. “Let’s see how long you last before you’re begging me to fuck you.”

Your pulse quickens, your stomach twisting at the way his words seep into your skin like venom. You hate that he’s right—hate that he knows exactly how to unravel you with just a few touches, a few sharp words. His hand moves again, slipping further down, his fingers sliding over your slick folds, and you can’t stop the soft gasp that escapes your lips. It’s involuntary, humiliating, and the satisfaction that flickers in his eyes makes your blood boil.

His fingers press harder, slipping inside you, and a sharp jolt of pleasure surges through you, your knees nearly buckling from the intensity of it. You bite your lip, hard, refusing to let him hear how much it affects you, but the way your body trembles against his tells him everything he needs to know.

His lips curl into a wicked smile as he watches you fall apart, his thumb brushing over your clit with a gentle, almost mocking pressure. The sensation sends a sharp jolt of pleasure straight through you, your knees buckling under the weight of it.

"That's what I thought," he murmurs, his voice dripping with arrogance. "You're all bark, no bite. Always talking like you're too good for this, but look at you. Practically fucking yourself on my hand."

Your breath comes in ragged gasps now, your body shaking with the effort to hold back the moans threatening to spill out. The shame and arousal twist together in a tangled mess, leaving you dizzy and disoriented.

“I fucking hate you,” you spit again, but the words sound weak, hollow. You’re losing this battle, and you know it.

“I know, baby,” he coos, his voice soft and patronizing, fingers curling inside you just right, and fuck, you can feel yourself slipping. “You hate me so much you’re about to come on my hand.”

Your vision blurs, the world around you narrowing down to the feel of his fingers, the press of his body against yours, and the way every filthy, degrading word he speaks sends heat pooling low in your belly. You’re so close, teetering on the edge of something dark and all-consuming, and you know—God, you know—you’re not going to last much longer.

But Matthew isn’t done with you. Not yet.

His free hand slides up your body, fingers brushing over the fabric of your dress, tugging it down just enough to expose the curve of your breasts. His mouth is on you in an instant, teeth grazing your skin as he sucks a bruising mark into the delicate flesh. The sensation is enough to send you over the edge, a sharp, desperate moan ripping from your throat as your body convulses around his fingers.

“There it is,” he growls, his breath hot against your skin as he presses you harder against the wall. “There’s my good girl. You can pretend all you want, but this is who you are. Mine.”

The word echoes in your mind, sending a fresh wave of heat coursing through you, and before you can stop yourself, you’re nodding, breathless and trembling under the weight of his touch.

“Yes,” you gasp, barely able to form the word, your body still trembling. “Fuck, yes.”

You’re still reeling from the orgasm he ripped out of you, your legs barely able to hold you up as Matthew unbuckles his belt with that smug smirk never leaving his face. The sound of the metal clinking should send alarm bells through your mind, but all you can focus on is the throbbing ache between your legs, the way your body is still trembling in the aftershocks of what just happened. You can feel your own wetness on your thighs, sticky and undeniable, and it’s infuriating how much you want him again already.

Your breath is still ragged, and there’s a knot of panic building in your chest as you realize what’s happening next. It’s not like this hasn’t happened before—Matthew getting you worked up, wrecking you with just his fingers or his mouth, then leaving you raw and aching. But this? This is different. It’s so public, so reckless, and you’re spiraling, caught between the shame and the all-consuming need that makes you feel like you’re drowning.

His hands are rough, impatient as he slides the leather through his belt loops, and the sight of him makes something inside you twist. “What, can’t wait to get your hands on me?” He mocks.

“Shut up,” you snap, the words sharp, but your voice is ragged, breathless. You’re trying so hard to hold onto some semblance of control, but it’s slipping through your fingers faster than you can catch it. “Just—do you have a condom?”

For a second, you think maybe, just maybe, you’ve managed to cut through that smug, self-satisfied exterior. His hand stills on his belt, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looks at you, and then he snorts, a low, condescending sound that makes your stomach twist. “A condom? Really?” He leans in closer, his breath hot against your neck as he speaks, voice dripping with arrogance. “I don’t give a fuck.”

You blink, taken aback by how blunt he is. The rational part of your brain is screaming at you to push him away, to tell him to go to hell, but the rest of you—the messy, broken part that always falls for his shit—is already caving. There’s something dangerous about the way he says it, like he knows you won’t stop him. And God, isn’t that the worst part? He’s right.

“Of course, you don’t,” you hiss, trying to muster up some semblance of dignity even as your body betrays you, heat pooling low in your belly again at the thought of what’s coming. “But we both know you don’t want me to have your demon babies.”

His laugh is low, dark, and filled with derision. “Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart,” he murmurs, fingers working the zipper of his pants. “You’re still going to let me fuck you raw in this goddamn alley, though.”

Your mouth opens to protest, to tell him he’s wrong, that you’re not some pathetic, needy thing desperate for his attention, but the words die in your throat when his hand slips back under your skirt, gripping your thigh and hooking your leg around his hip–then pushing your panties to the side. You bite back a moan, your body trembling with the need for more, and the smug look on his face tells you he knows exactly how close you are to breaking again.

Before begin to think anything else, he’s lining himself up, his breath hot against your skin, and without warning, he thrusts into you, hard and fast, burying himself to the hilt. The sharp, overwhelming sensation rips through you, a gasp tearing from your throat, and for a moment, all you can feel is him—filling you, stretching you, claiming every inch of space you swore you wouldn’t give him again.

It hurts. It always does with him, at first—he’s too rough, too insistent, too much—but you’ve always liked the pain, haven’t you? That’s the sick, twisted truth of it. The burn, the way he takes without asking, the way he knows exactly how to push you to the brink—it all leaves you breathless, dizzy with need.

You dig your nails into his shoulders, trying to hold onto something, anything, but you’re unraveling, piece by piece. His hips slam into yours with a brutal, unrelenting pace, the sound of flesh meeting flesh echoing in the narrow alleyway. You can feel the dampness of your sweat mixing with the sticky night air, your skin slick against his, and it’s filthy. All of it. Filthy and wrong, but God, it feels so good.

“God, you’re such an asshole,” you spit out between breaths, voice trembling from the force of his hips slamming into yours. His pace is punishing, each thrust sending shockwaves through your body, and you can’t help the way your nails dig deeper into his skin, leaving angry red lines in their wake.

Matthew grunts in response, his breath ragged against your neck. His lips skim over your ear, and his teeth nip at your skin, making you shiver despite the oppressive heat. “Says the girl getting fucked against a wall like a desperate little slut.” He’s ruthless with his words, throwing them like knives that slice straight through you, but the sharpness only spurs you on.

You bare your teeth and bite down hard on his shoulder, not holding back, feeling the satisfaction of his skin giving way beneath your teeth. It’s a desperate, feral reaction—your body’s twisted way of regaining some control. He hisses, his muscles tensing as your bite sends a shockwave through him. You know it hurts, and you want it to. You want him to feel a fraction of the chaotic mess he’s making of you.

But it only makes him rougher.

His hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back hard enough that it stings. “Oh, you like playing rough now, huh?” His voice is a growl, low and dangerous. His grip tightens painfully on your leg as he slams into you harder, forcing you to choke on your next breath. “Biting me, clawing me like a desperate little whore—pathetic. You’re just pissed ‘cause you know how much you want this.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” you lie, gasping as another wave of pleasure courses through you, your body responding despite your brain screaming at you to stop. It’s pathetic, truly—how your body betrays you, how you’re falling apart in his hands, coming undone at the same pace that he’s pulling you tighter against him.

He laughs, breathless and cruel. “Liar.” His thumb presses against your clit, rubbing slow, torturous circles, and you’re instantly undone by the sensation, your hips bucking against his despite yourself. “You’re squeezing me so tight, it’s like you’re trying to keep me inside you.” The smugness in his voice makes you want to slap him, but you can’t even think straight, not with his body driving into yours, his fingers working you over like you’re nothing but a puppet on strings.

Your response is unintelligible, more of a broken moan than actual words. You try, desperately, to hold on to some part of yourself, to remember who you are beneath all this anger and lust, but it’s slipping, unraveling with each thrust, with each word he spits at you. Your nails drag down his back again, harder this time, drawing a hiss from his throat, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t even falter.

“You can keep trying to hurt me, sweetheart,” he says, voice rough, “but it just makes you tighter for me. Keep going—I can take it.”

You bite down on your lip so hard you taste blood, trying to stop the sounds that are escaping you. The alleyway feels suffocating, the heat of the night clinging to your skin, making everything feel more intense, more raw. The smell of sweat and sex mingles in the air, and you’re hyperaware of every sound—the way your bodies slap together, the wetness between your legs, the soft, desperate gasps that you can’t control.

“You’re going to regret this,” you manage to say, your voice trembling as you try, for the millionth time, to regain some semblance of control. It’s a weak threat, and you both know it. Matthew’s grin stretches wider, his eyes gleaming in the dim light.

“I’ve never regretted a thing with you,” he growls, his pace quickening. He’s relentless now, hips snapping into you with a force that makes your head spin, his thumb working over your clit faster. "Keep biting, sweetheart," he says through a tight grin, his pace never faltering, "I’ll make you scream for it."

And God help you, you do. Every thrust has you trembling, gasping, barely able to think beyond the white-hot pleasure searing through you. It’s too much, too fast, but you can’t stop yourself—you’re pushing against him, meeting every punishing stroke like you’re trying to match him in this sick, twisted game of dominance.

Your breath hitches, your body arching against his as that familiar, unbearable pressure starts to build low in your belly. You can feel it—feel yourself slipping, unraveling, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. His name slips from your lips, ragged and broken, and you want to hate yourself for how desperate you sound.

"Already?" he taunts, his voice low and dripping with condescension. "Didn’t take long this time, did it? Always so damn easy for me."

"Fuck you," you manage to gasp out, but it’s weak, barely above a whisper, because he’s right. You’re already falling apart around him, your body betraying you in the worst possible way.

"Too late for that," he growls, thrusting into you harder, and the sharp slap of his hips against yours sends a fresh wave of heat crashing through you. "You’re already fucked, baby."

And that’s when it happens. That tight, coiling knot inside you snaps, and you fall—hard. Your whole body clenches, thighs shaking as a violent orgasm tears through you, your head tipping back against the brick wall as a choked, guttural moan rips from your throat. You’re shaking, barely able to breathe, and he doesn’t stop. Not even for a second.

Matthew’s grip tightens on your hips, bruising, and he’s still moving, driving into you with a brutal intensity that makes your whole body ache. "God, you’re such a fucking mess," he mutters, his voice rough and breathless, and you can hear the strain in his tone, the way his own release is close, just out of reach.

Your fingers scramble against his back, your nails raking down the muscles there in a desperate attempt to hold on to something solid as your mind spirals. You can feel the raw scratches your nails leave behind, but it’s not enough—it’s never enough to satisfy the gnawing need to make him feel this too. You can feel him, hard and throbbing inside you, and somewhere in the haze of it all, you hear him grunt, low and rough. “Where do you want it, huh?” His voice is breathless, but there’s still that edge of arrogance in it. “Tell me. Where should I come?”

You should tell him to pull out. You should tell him you’re not that stupid, that you know better. But the words that come out of your mouth aren’t the ones you intended.

“Inside,” you gasp, before you can stop yourself. “I don’t care. Just—fuck, Matt, do it. Please.”

His eyes darken at your words, and you swear you feel him twitch inside you, his grip on your hips tightening as he slams into you one more time, burying himself deep. With a rough, guttural groan, he lets go, his body tensing as he spills inside you, the warmth flooding your core in a way that makes your already oversensitive body shudder.

For a moment, neither of you move, both of you breathing hard, the sticky heat of the night settling back in around you. You’re still pressed against the wall, your legs trembling, his body heavy against yours, and for a second, you wonder if maybe—just maybe—he’ll say something that makes this less horrible. Maybe he’ll apologize or admit that this is as fucked up for him as it is for you.

"Need a ride home?" he asks, his tone almost casual, like he’s offering you a lift after a night out with friends and not after he just fucked you against a wall without even a second thought.

You blink at him, still too stunned to answer right away. "Are you serious?" you snap, your voice laced with disbelief. "After everything, that’s what you say?"

He shrugs, unbothered by your tone. "What? You wanna walk?" His eyes flick over you, taking in the disheveled state of your dress, your mussed hair, and the bruises already forming on your hips. "Thought you might want to clean up a little before you try to get into an Uber looking like that."

The nerve of him, acting like this was nothing, like he didn’t just wreck you in every possible way. "You’re such a piece of shit," you hiss, shoving him hard in the chest, though it feels more like an afterthought than anything else. You’re drained, physically and emotionally, but of course, Matthew doesn’t care.

He just laughs, low and dark, brushing off the shove like it’s nothing. "Yeah, well, you still let me fuck you, so what does that make you?"

You hate him. You hate him so much you can barely breathe through the anger, but all you can do is be dragged by him out of the alley, with a promise of nothing.

[kelthebarb]

ABOUT ME!

hello hello !!

i’m kelian, keli, or kel (feel free to call me either), i’m 19, and i write fanfiction :)

here are some of the fandoms & characters i write for

— TWD

genres: angst, fluff, smut, platonic, headcannons, oneshots, alphabets

carl grimes, rick grimes, daryl dixon, michonne grimes, enid rhee, maggie rhee, henry sutton, rosita espinosa, glenn rhee, tara chambler, ron anderson

— AOT

genres: angst, fluff, smut, platonic, headcannons, oneshots, alphabets

hangë zoe, eren yeager, levi ackerman, jean kirschtein, armin arlert, connie springer, mikasa ackerman, sasha braus, annie leonhardt

— VLD

genres: fluff, angst, platonic, headcannons, oneshots

pidge gunderson, lance mcclain, keith kogane, matt holt, princess allura

— MHA

genres: angst, fluff, smut, platonic, headcannons, oneshots, alphabets

mezo shoji, hitoshi shinsou, shoto todoroki, katsuki bakugou, touya todoroki/dabi, izuku midoriya, eijiro kirishima, denki kaminari, tenya iida, hanta sero

— GMW

genres: fluff, angst, platonic, headcannons, oneshots

lucas friar, farkle minkus, riley matthews, maya hart, shawn hunter

— KNY

genres: smut (only for some characters), fluff, angst, platonic, headcannons, oneshots

tanjiro kamado, inosuke hashibira, zenitsu agatsuma, giyuu tomioka, rengoku kyojuro, tengen uzui, obanai iguro, sanemi shinazugawa, himejima gyomei, muichiro tokito, gyutaro shabana

— ATWOW

genres: smut (only for some characters), fluff, angst, platonic, headcannons, oneshots

[nga yawne lu oer - lo’ak sully]

[mean - neteyam & lo’ak sully]

lo’ak sully, neteyam sully, kiri sully, jake sully, neytiri te tskaha mo’at’ite, aonung, tsireya, rotxo

— COD

genres: angst, fluff, smut, platonic, headcannons, oneshots, alphabets

[if i could tell her - john “soap” mactavish]

[my future - simon “ghost” riley]

simon “ghost” riley, john “soap” mactavish, kyle “gaz” garrick, john price, alejandro vargas, keegan russ, alex keller, könig

— GHOST

genres: angst, fluff, smut, platonic, headcannons, oneshots, alphabets (only platonic for the girls because i’m gay)

[mountaindew angst blurb]

swiss, dew, mountain, phantom, aether, rain, cumulus, cirrus, aurora

- WHAT I WILL WRITE

dom/sub dynamics

ships

pet names

pretty tame kinks (also piss if ya filthy) (i am)

character x reader

- WHAT I WILL NOT WRITE

odd kinks, shit, age regression, etc

incest

fem!reader

yandere characters/readers

requests that make me uncomfortable

n that’s pretty much it ! my requests are open, so feel free to send in some !

[specterings]

HOUNDING… cal. 18. transmasc. he/it. you can find me on twitter under the same name.

HOWLING… simon ‘ghost’ riley. john price. john ‘soap’ mactavish. kyle ‘gaz’ garrick. phillip graves. alejandro vargas. rodolfo parra. alex keller. matthew murdock. foggy nelson. frank castle. peter parker. steve rogers. bucky barnes. the winter soldier. arthur morgan. sean macguire. homelander. frenchie. billy butcher. hughie campbell. mother’s milk. jon snow. the hound. wyll ravengard. gale dekarios.

BARKING… sfw, nsfw, ftm reader and character, amab, top!reader, bottom!reader, sub!m!character, top!character, he/him &. they/them reader. pet play, primal play, water sports, character x character, platonic dynamics, fluff, angst, age gap (not illegal), feminization, a/b/o, hybrids, monsterfucking (to an extent), alternative universes, breeding, oviposition, size kink

SNARLING… fem!reader, scat, age play, underage, non-con, dub-con, snuff, bestiality, incest/stepcest, vomit, forced-anything.

COLLARING… no tag list yet.

BITING… do not flirt with me / make jokes about flirting with me, ask me to write anything it says i wont write.

PETTING… reblogging my work, sending asks, giving yourself an anon ‘name,’ asking about stuff you dont see on either list of do/do not writes, spitballing ideas in my asks, sending requests,

CLAWING… #sfw for only sfw, #n/sfw for nsfw, #cal speaks for personal posts, #cal writes for my writing, #ftm for ftm reader or character.

[cuttergauthier]

Who I Write For

Hey everyone this is a list of who I write for.

If you have someone else in mind, send me an ask and i’ll let you know if i want to write for him. I’m not picky

Also if anyone would want me to start an AU let me know!

How to request

I DO NOT WRITE SMUT

New jersey Devils

Jack Hughes

Nathan Bastian

Dawson Mercer

Luke Hughes

Nico Hischier

Timo Meier

Brendan Smith

Vancouver Canucks

Quinn Hughes

Brock Boeser

Elias Pettersson

Cole McWard

Anthony Beauvillier

Dakota Joshua

Toronto Maple Leafs

Mitch Marner

Auston Matthews

William Nylander

Matthew Knies

Morgan Reilly

Buffalo Sabres

Owen Powers

Tyson Jost

Devon Levi

Erik Johnson

Jeff Skinner

Tage Thompson

Dylan Cozens

Casey Mittelstadt

Carolina Hurricanes

Michael Bunting

Andrei Svechnikov

Jack Drury

Pittsburgh Penguins

Pierre-Oliver Joseph

Ryan Graves

Ty Smith

Columbus Blue Jackets

Nick Blankenburg

Kent Johnson

Cole Sillinger

Adam Boqvist

Zach Werenski

Adam Fantilli

Vegas Golden Knights

Brendan Brisson

San Jose Sharks

Thomas Bordeleau

Tristen Robins

William Eklund

Henry Thrun

Luke Kunin

Anaheim Ducks

Trevor Zegras

Mason McTavish

John Gibson

Frank Vatrano

St Louis Blues

Jake Neighbours

Colton Parayko

Ottawa Senators

Josh Norris

Brady Tkachuk

Mathieu Joseph

Jakob Chychrun

Zack MacEwen

Tim Stutzle

Thomas Chabot

Minnesota Wilds

Matt Boldy

Brock Faber

Brandon Duhaime

Los Angeles Kings

Alex Turcotte

Quinn Byfield

Brandt Clarke

Pierre Luc Dubois

Alex Laferriere

Florida Panthers

Matthew Tkachuk

Sam Bennett

Mackie Samoskevich

William Lockwood

Aaron Ekblad

Josh Mahura

Brandon Montour

Colorado Avalanche

Cale Makar

Bowen Byram

Nate Mackinnon

Miles Wood

Detroit Red Wings

J.T. Compher

Dylan Larkin

Joe Veleno

Jake Walman

Boston Bruins

Mason Lohrei

Johnny Beecher

Jeremy Swayman

Jake Debrusk

Charlie Mcavoy

Montreal Canadiens

Cole Caufield

Arber Xhekaj

Kirby Dach

Christian Dvorak

Alex Newhook

New York Islanders

Noah Dobson

Mat Barzal

Philadelphia Flyers

Morgan Frost

Cam York

Jamie Drysdale

Joe Farabee

Tyson Foerster

Noah Cates

New York Rangers

Alexis Lafrenière

Adam Fox

K’Andre Miller

Braden Schneider

Chris Kreider

Zac Jones

Arizona Coyotes

Logan Cooley

Dylan Guenther

Clayton Keller

Nick Schmaltz

Chicago Blackhawks

Lukas Reichel

Seth Jones

Alex Vlasic

Connor Bedard

Tampa Bay Lightnings

Brandon Hagel

Anthony Cirelli

Seattle Kraken

Brandon Tanev

Jamie Oleksiak

Philipp Grubauer

Will Borgen

Dallas Stars

Wyatt Johnston

Jake Oettinger

Rope Hintz

Craig Smith

University of Michigan

Luca Fantili

Rutger McGroarty

Nick Moldenhauer

Phil Lapointe

Jacob Truscott

Tyler Duke

Marshall Warren

Frank Nezar

Ethan Edwards

Michigan State University

Red Savage

Isaac Howard

Maxim Štrbák

Ohio State University

Joe Dunlap

Cam Thiesing

Davis Burnside

Caden Brown

Matt Cassidy

Minnesota University

Luke Mittelstadt

Jimmy Snuggerud

Ryan Chesley

Oliver Moore

Brody Lamb

Boston College

Cutter Gauthier

Will Smith

Ryan Leonard

Gabe Perreault

Drew Fortescue

Jacob Fowler

Will Vote

University of Wisconsin

Cruz Lucius

Charlie Stramel

Zach Schulz

Random Teams

Nick Granowicz

Jay Keranen

Colton Dach

Nathan Gaucher

+ more

AU’s 

Nick Granowicz x Msu Reader

Josh Norris x Tkachuk sister

Trevor Zegras x Hughes sister

Cutter Gauthier x Hughes sister

Matthew Knies x Matthews sister

Jack Hughes x Mercer au

[angelkurenai]

Masterlist Update~! Including posts from 15/09/18 to 10/03/19.

Dean Winchester Series/One-Shots

Naturally Alpha - Dean Winchester x Reader (French Mistake/A/B/Os AU)

Part 2 l Part 3 l Part 4 l Part 5 l Part 6

Silver lining - Dean Winchester x Reader

One-Shot

A simple deal - Dean Winchester x Reader

One-Shot

Jealousy just got pretty - Dean Winchester x Reader

One-Shot

Running away - Dean Winchester x Reader

One-Shot

A supernatural marvel - Dean Winchester x Reader x Steve Rogers

Part 6 l Part 7 l Part 8 l Part 9 l Part 10 l Part 11 l Part 12 l Part 13 l Dean’s Ending l Steve’s Ending

A divine act - Dean Winchester x Reader x Sam Winchester

One-Shot

SPN Actors One-Shots

Ackles VS Ackles - Jensen Ackles x Reader

One-Shot

Choose your side wisely - Jensen Ackles x Reader

One-Shot

Guardian angel - Alexander Calvert x Reader

One-Shot

MARVEL One-Shots

Sleeping in - Steve Rogers x Reader

One-Shot

Dean Winchester Imagines

Imagined Jack pointing it out when Dean is jealous, especially of your crush on Matthew Daddario.

Imagine being an Alpha and returning home late from a date one night. Only to find Dean, who’s clearly jealous, wide-awake and waiting for you.

Imagine Michael flirting with you, very intrigued when he sees you in Dean’s memories and figures out the hunter loves you. Only to end up admitting you are what he really wants too.

Imagine showing Dean that he’s not old to you and what you really think of him and his age, which only gets him very flustered, hot and bothered.

Imagine Jack giving advice to Dean on how to ask you out because he’s always been in love with you but doesn’t dare to make the first move.

Imagine going out with Dean and trying to confess to each other how you feel about one another, until you realize you’ve caught the eye of a attractive and probably dangerous man, Nick Lowell.

Imagine Dean getting flustered but also hot and bothered when you openly talk about your fantasies around him, because he can’t help but picture the two of you together.

Imagine Ketch pointing out Dean’s feelings for you, when he notices how clingy you two are, when they’re in the Apocalypse world. Even though you claim to be only friends.

Imagine Dean meeting you when he was living with Lisa and being unable to get you off his mind because he fell hopelessly in love with you, more than with any other woman. So much that he wants to spend the rest of his life with you.

Imagine Dean being a famous artist and you are his model.

Imagine Jack confessing to you that he’s in love with you before he dies, but you don’t get it because all you can think about is Dean, the man you love.

Imagine Dean constantly thinking about you and wanting to contact you since you left the bunker to have a life with Steve, feeling guilty for how you parted ways and missing you real bad because he was in love with you and didn’t get to tell you. Only to show up again in front of him.

Imagine Dean being a single father and meeting you, the teacher of his daughter, and being completely taken by you.

Imagine John noticing the feelings you and Dean have for each other but don’t dare admit and making comments about them to help set you two up.

Imagine John assuming you and Dean are engaged and being excited for his son because he can see he loves you. So when he finds out you’re only friends, he takes matters into his own hands, only to embarrass Dean.

Imagine when John returns, Dean looks for you but meets a version of you than never met and fell in love with him which hurts him deeply. Only to find out that before it all happened, you were pregnant with his child and had not told him yet.

Imagine when John returns, Dean looks for you but meets a version of you than never met and fell in love with him which hurts him deeply. Only to find out that before it all happened, you were pregnant with his child and had not told him yet.(Part 2)

Imagine giving birth to yours and Dean’s daughter and feeling happy but insecure about the weight you’ve gained so you keep your distance from him. Only for Dean to show you in any and every way how much he really loves you.

Sam Winchester Imagines

Imagine Dean setting you and Sam up on a date because he’s sick and tired of you hiding your feelings from each other and wants you to admit it.

Jack Kline Imagines

Imagine being able to heal others by taking their injuries. After a fight, you heal Jack, you are left weaker and hurt and he feels guilty and sad, because he’s in love with you.

Imagine giving Jack a gift for Christmas, his new jacket, and making Dean jealous and grumpy because you don’t give him the same attention anymore.

Castiel Imagines

Imagine finding out about the deal Castiel made to save Jack and being devastated because you love him. Only to break his heart even more by telling him you are pregnant with his child.

Jensen Ackles Imagines

Imagine flirting with Jensen on set and him getting so flustered because he likes you that it makes it into the gag reel.

Imagine having your first kissing scene with Jensen, long-time best friend and costar, and he is so taken by you that he forgets all of his lines afterwards.

Imagine you and Jensen getting married in secret and your friend and costar, Robert Downey Jr, revealing it during a comic con.

Imagine dating Jeffrey in secret for some time and announcing you got engaged only to break Jensen’s heart, who is your best friend and was always in love with you.

Imagine Jared making a comment about how you and Jensen give each other heart eyes all the time and you getting back at him for it.

Imagine having a live on facebook while in bed and your secret and very naked boyfriend who is sleeping next to you, Jensen, crashing it by revealing your relationship by accident.

Dean x Reader x Sam Imagines

Imagine telling the boys how much you like Sam’s beard and showing the weak spot you have for men with a beard too.

Imagine telling the boys how much you like Sam shaving and showing the weak spot you also have for men without a beard, just to tease them more.

Imagine after being freed from Michael, Dean finding out that you and Sam are got in a relationship. Just as he was ready to confess to you that he’s been in love with you for years.

Imagine Michael wanting to break Dean by showing to him that you, his huntring partner and ex, are in a relationship with Sam. Even though Dean is still in love with you.

Steve Rogers Imagines

Imagine Steve being your bodyguard and you flirting with him and trying to get him to loosen up but making him flustered.

Other Characters Imagines

Imagine taking the boys on a surprise vacation because they need it.

Imagine going out on a date with Crowley.

Detective Loki Imagines

Imagine being Keller’s oldest daughter and meeting detective Loki when he takes up the case of your missing sister. Only for him to make it personal because of you and his newly found feelings for you.

Bill Skarsgard Imagines

Imagine the morning after in your bed with Bill for the first time, where you love to tease him.

[were-cheetah-stiles]

The Recruit (Chapter 4) - Mitch Rapp

Author: @were-cheetah-stiles

Title: “Day 12″

Characters: Mitch Rapp, Stan Hurley, Rob Russells & Reader

Warnings: Slow burn, some more touchin’, cursing.. there will pretty much always be cursing.. I curse a lot, so now you as the reader will to. I’m. Not. Sorry.

Author’s Note: Another favorite chapter, this one was just fun to write..

Summary: Stan has the recruits create an undercover identity so that they can infiltrate a college reunion and convince the guests that they were also members of the graduating class. Mitch and Y/N have a moment. 

Additional Note: This is very, very, very loosely based on like an idea from an episode of Quantico. Loosely being the operative word.

Additional Additional Note: In the original story, this is not Mitch x Reader, it’s Mitch x OFC, and her name is Willa, so when Rob says “Will Petersen blah blah blah” that’s where that came from.

Chapter Three - Chapter Four - Chapter Five

Stan stood in the front of the charter bus, his hands gripping the seats next to him, as he spoke to the recruits. "We're going to be pulling up to the hotel ballroom in a few minutes. Just a reminder that going undercover is not going to be easy, and we will be stopping the people we see talking to you before they leave to see if they believed your cover story or not. Remember, College of William and Mary is a medium sized university. The graduating class of 2012 was about 2,100 people, so while it's enough for you to get by, these people will probably be able to tell when they don't recognize someone. If you don't know your new identity backwards and forwards, tonight, you get punished back at the Barn. If you don't know your undercover identity in the field, you get killed, so take this seriously. It’s not just a party with free booze. You’re all working."

"Are we allowed to use each other to play off of our identities? No one ever goes to these things alone." Rob asked, making a good point.

"That's true, Russells. Most people would not show up to a five year college reunion alone, but I don't advise this unless you know enough about someone else's identity to not expose them as a fraud, and in doing that, yourself as a fraud."

Mitch watched from behind, through the crack in between the seats as Rob turned to you and stuck out his hand for you to shake. "Nice to meet you, I'm Will, Will Peterson and I'm from New York City, and I speak three languages." Rob grinned and Mitch smirked, and snickered to himself.

You stared at Rob with a deadpan expression, and left his hand still floating in the air. "......you stole my identity and made me a man?" Rob nodded, vigorously grinning. You rolled your eyes, and huffed, finally flimsily shaking Rob's hand. "Fine. I'm Maggie Sheffield and I'm from Portland, Oregon. I swear, I think I once sat next to you at a football game at Zable Stadium." 

"This is going to be awesome." Rob was overly excited.

You walked in the hotel ballroom, dimly lit and full of people, and made a straight shot towards the bar. You immediately ordered a microbrew craft beer, then sat down on a bar stool in the middle. You were wearing black suede thigh-high boots with a tall, chunky heel, with a short cream colored dress that hugged your body and showed off your toned figure. You sipped the bitter, hoppy beverage and sucked at your teeth. You hated hoppy beer, but you were crafting a character, so you drank it anyway.

You glanced at the end of the bar and saw three guys huddled around eyeing you. You pressed your tongue between your lips, and leaned over the wooden bar. "Hey, can I ask you a quick favor?" You got the bartender's attention. He turned back around and grinned, happy that the beautiful girl had stuck around instead of leaving the bar to mingle with the other alumni. "Can you wait until those guys aren't paying attention and pour out half of my beer, then put it back here?"

The bartender glanced over at the guys and looked back at you. "You trying to get them to buy you a drink?"

"Kind of..."

"You know it's an open bar, right?"

"I know." You smirked.

The bartender stepped back and eyed you up and down. "Yea, I'd buy you a drink at a free bar because of that dress too.."

You playfully bit the tip of your thumb and smiled. You knew how to play up the flirtation and get a guy to notice you. The bartender sneakily did as you asked and you took another sip of your now almost empty drink, making eye contact with the one in the middle, as you licked your lips and placed your glass back down. You checked the delicate rose gold watch on your wrist, and fiddled with your hair, twirling it around your finger.

"Hey, can we get you another drink?" You smirked as you heard the voice of one of the men who had walked over with his buddies from the other end of the bar. You had succeeded in seducing them over to you.

You turned and gave your most devastating smile to the three men hovering next to your seat. "I would love that. Thank you. I can't seem to get his attention."

"I don't know how that's possible with you in those boots but I guess he didn't see you walk in like we did... YO, bartender! We'll have another round and some shots of tequila." One of the guys yelled obnoxiously. You faked flattery and a giggle, and looked for the bartender. You caught Mitch leaning against the bar directly behind you, waiting for the bartender to take care of his other customers before getting to him, and glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. "I'm Brian, and this is Zach and Andy." The guy in the middle made introductions, snapping your focus back to your marks, as you flirtatiously shook their hands. You all did your shots and continued talking.

"Wait, no way, what semester did you take European Lit. with Mr. Moore?" You asked Brian, leaning in to let him get an eyeful of your cleavage.

"Spring semester, Sophomore year. I know you were in that class. I remember you." Brian told you, buying the story that you had pawned off on them.

"Oh my god, I absolutely hated that class... what was that one book we read that was just awful? Ugh, I can't remember the name... it had that guy.."

"Beowulf!" Brian shouted drunkenly.

You paused for a half second, after being surprised that this idiot in front of you picked such a good classic book. You heard Mitch snicker behind you. "That was it! God, that was such a stupid book... Grendel was not even that scary.." You laughed and took a sip of your drink, watching the three men talking in front of you about their careers and other things that you couldn't care any less about. You heard Mitch's voice behind you.

"Steven Greene, nice to meet you." Mitch said in his low, husky tone.

"My friend and I were saying that you had to be someone's date because we definitely would have remembered someone as gorgeous as you at graduation." The woman speaking to Mitch giggled drunkenly.

"Ah yea... I've, uh, lost some weight since graduation, but uh what are both of your names?" The women fawned over him, divulging their life stories. "Oh wow, I'm from Bethlehem." Mitch told one of them, trying to feign excitement. You rolled your eyes at their conversation. 

"You're from Bethlehem, Pennsylvania?! NO WAY. I grew up in Allentown. That's amazing. What high school did you go to?" The woman named Stacey pushed her hand against Mitch's shoulder causing Mitch to lean back against you. You kicked him lightly under the bar and Mitch grinned.

"I went to Freedom High School, all my friends went to Liberty though." Mitch explained. He had clearly done his research and you were impressed at how confidently he spoke about a person that didn’t exist.

"That's so funny, I knew a couple of kids at Freedom. Did you know Matthew Yeisman or Sarah Keller?" The woman drunkenly babbled.

Mitch shook his head. "The names sound familiar but it was so long ago now..." He shrugged.

The more sober woman interjected and asked Mitch what he did professionally since college. "Well, my freshman roommate and I, we moved up to New York together after graduation and both work on Wall Street now at Morgan Stanley." Mitch answered confidently, and listened to the woman’s next question. "Oh, we lived in Yates Hall." Mitch answered the woman who was trying to find common ground through his freshman dorm hall.

You were forced to cease eavesdropping on Mitch's conversation when you heard your cover's name. "Maggie.. Maggie, I asked if you want to dance?" Brian asked you, putting his hand on your knee. You thought about the ways in which you could break his fingers.

You smiled. "I'm sorry, I'd love to. But I have to use the ladies room really quick. I'll be right back. Order me another drink!" You shouted as you walked away, with zero intention of returning.

You walked through the room looking for Rob and Julian. You wondered how they were making out. You saw Rob standing next to a group of four women who all looked annoyed and bored. You grabbed an hor d'oeuvres off a moving tray and popped it in your mouth, then grabbed a champagne off another tray and downed it, trying to get the taste of the IPA off your tongue. 

You got close enough to hear what the girl in the blue jumpsuit was saying to Rob. "I seriously don't think you were in my women's studies class junior year. There were three guys in that class and I would've remembered one as gigantic as you." You watched as one of the other women whispered to her friend about Rob. "This guy clearly didn't go here, he is so clueless. I bet he’s just another one of those party crashers."

You decided to intervene on your friend's behalf. You ran up to Rob and grabbed him by the arm. "Will? Will Peterson? Oh my god, I haven't seen you since graduation! How are you?"

Rob looked stunned, and then snapped back into character. "Maggie! Maggie Sheffield, how are you?" You hugged the large man.

"I'm sorry, ladies. I didn't mean to interrupt. I just, I had to. I took a Women's Studies class with Will here in Senior year and for a guy, he was so insightful. He wrote a paper about misogyny that our professor literally read out loud to the class because it was so thoughtful." You were charming and disarming. The women all relaxed and began chatting to the two undercover trainees. 

"Ugh, I always wished I was in Yates Hall. My freshman dorm was so boring." One of the women asked you a question that you knew that you couldn't answer without getting caught, but you were quick on your feet. "Oh my god, wait.. wait.." You giggled and grabbed the arm of one of the women in front of you. "I LOVE this song... Do you guys want to dance?"

You knew that the women wanted to get away from Rob. He hadn't blown his cover but he was terrible with women, and generally came off as too strong due to his eagerness and intimidating size. The women all agreed and began skipping and stumbling to the dance floor. "See you later Will." You grinned back at your friend. You danced with you new group of girlfriends to Bruno Mars' "Uptown Funk".

Mitch had finally shaken the two women from earlier and was talking to a group of guys about finance and the economy. He had fully convinced them all that he was in their business fraternity with them and was networking with one of them about trying to get the guy a job that didn't actually exist at Morgan Stanley with Mitch. Mitch caught a glimpse of you shaking and gyrating on the dance floor and suddenly found himself unable to look away. He watched as you dropped to the floor, your legs looking long and sleek in your tall boots, and your body looking tight as you shimmied your way back up. He was mesmerized by the way your face lit up with a genuine smile as you danced to a song that you clearly, actually liked. He was taken aback at how sexy you were and how hard he was finding it to focus on his conversation. Mitch was snapped back to reality when one of the men patted Mitch on the shoulder and invited him to their pick-up football game on campus the following afternoon. Mitch agreed and exchanged fake information, then excused himself to get another drink, glancing back at the dance floor but no longer seeing you.

Mitch leaned against the bar, one leg on the stool and one foot touching the floor, and waited for the bartender to make his rounds. A woman leaned next to him and smiled. Mitch nodded politely and went back to waiting for the bartender.

"Hi, I'm Alicia." She stuck out her hand to shake Mitch's. "So who are you here with? I don't remember you from the class photo."

"Steven Greene." Mitch shook her hand. "I came alone tonight, just wanted to meet up with some old buddies from the business fraternity and get a free drink, you know?" Mitch put on his most charming and unassuming smile.

The woman blushed but persisted. "You were in the business school? I just... I don't know, I don't mean to be forward, but you are so handsome, I really feel like I would've remembered you. What dorm did you live in Freshman year?" She asked.

"Yates. What about you?"

"I lived in Yates too. I... I am stunned, I really don't remember y-"

"Hey babe, I was looking for you everywhere." You cut the woman off mid-sentence, hooked your arm around Mitch's and pressed your body against his. Mitch felt a surge of energy rush through his body as you leaned against him. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt. I sent him over here forever ago for our drinks." You leaned over the bar and Mitch's lap and caught your old bartender friend's attention. You felt Mitch’s hand slowly and hesitantly slide across your back, and suddenly you felt weak. You exhaled, trying to focus on your words. "Hi, can I get a champagne, a whiskey neat, and whatever she's having." You flashed your most dazzling smile at the woman.

"A Chardonnay please." Alicia told the bartender. "Thank you, I couldn't get a drink in to save my life." She nodded at you.

"I'm sorry, I'm being so rude. My name is Maggie Sheffield, I didn't catch yours."

"Alicia Hardwick." The woman shook your hand. "I was just talking to Steven here about how we both lived in the same dorm Freshman year, but I don't quite remember him." The woman sounded suspicious.

"Oh my god, you lived in Yates Hall too? Ugh, I really love that building. It's where Steven and I first met. Oh my god, it was the cutest story, wasn't it, S?" You looked up at him and Mitch nodded. The bartender brought your drinks over and Mitch handed them to you and Alicia. "Thanks, babe. So anyway, isn't this funny? I was literally just talking to my friend over there. Rosemary? She's dancing with Katie Myers, Lindsay Orly and Jen Smith?" You pointed to the group of women that you had been chatting and dancing with, and the suspicious Alicia craned her neck to see.

"Oh, I think I remember Rosemary, she lived on the second floor, right?" Alicia tested you.

"Actually, I think it was the third floor. Right, babe?" You looked up at Mitch, and he nodded. You leaned back against Mitch's chest, and he wrapped an arm around you, as you continued trying to convince this woman that Mitch had lived in her Freshman dorm. "Anyway, Rosemary and I were talking about the night when Steve and I met. I was in Rosemary's room borrowing notes for a class, and Steven and her were friendly and he popped his head in to borrow something from her."

"Toothpaste...." Mitch added, trying to help you out from doing all of the heavy lifting.

"Yea..." You smiled up at Mitch and snuggled hard against him. Mitch's breath hitched in the back of his throat, and his hand involuntarily squeezed at your hip harder. Your heart raced at the intimate touching. "Anyway, it was late and Rosemary introduced Steve and I, and Steve was like, 'it's not safe to walk back to your dorm alone this time of night.'" You made a mocking voice. "Even though I just lived over in the Green and Gold Village." You laughed. "But I thought he was cute, a little chubbier back then, but god we all had some baby fat still, am I right?" You laughed and lightly tapped Alicia on the shoulder. "So anyway, he walked me back to my dorm, and nine years later, we're still together." You smiled up at Mitch, then looked back at Alicia. "I'm so sorry, you didn't even remotely want to hear that story, it's just fun getting to tell it to people we went to school with who get how silly it was that Steve was trying to convince me that it was unsafe to walk from Yates to Green and Gold at 11 on a Tuesday night."

"No, no... I'm sorry. I was giving Steve the third degree before because I didn't remember him. We had some party crashers thrown out earlier and I thought he was a straggler because I didn't remember him, but I think I actually remember seeing you two hanging out together in the Yates common room now. I'm just being an alarmist. I feel awful. I'm so sorry, Steve." Alicia apologized profusely.

"It's totally fine. I get it. It's hard to remember everyone from our class. I mean, 2,000 doesn't seem that big in theory, but throw a few new beards, a few extra pounds and five years, and it’s hard to remember anyone." Mitch told her, taking a sip from his whiskey. He was in the clear because of you.

Mitch had knocked on your door, but no one answered. He couldn't get the image of you dancing in that tight cream colored dress out of his head, so he went down to the hotel lounge for a drink. He spotted you curled up on a couch in the corner of the lounge, light and dreamy piano music playing for the late night crowd in the background. 

You had a piece of chocolate cake on the arm of the sofa, a fork in hand, a half drunk glass of champagne on the table next to you, and Lord of the Flies folded up in front of your face. You were wearing a blue and red, oversized flannel shirt, black leggings and your moccasins sat on the floor, as your bare feet were tucked underneath you. Mitch ordered a whiskey neat and sat down on the loveseat next to you.

You grinned when you saw him sit. Mitch still had his well-fitted navy blue dress pants on with a crisp white shirt still perfectly tucked in, and unbuttoned neatly by the collar, his mahogany wingtips still perfectly polished and clean. "Well, hey there, Steven Greene. Fancy seeing you here." You said, placing your book and fork down and picking your drink up to your still perfectly done lips. Your hair still cascaded with natural looking curls and your eyeliner was still in place without a smudge.

“I think Y/N suits you better than Maggie.” Mitch said as he settled in next to you. 

“Just like Mitch suits you.” You took a sip of champagne and felt the bubbles lightly popping as they went down your throat.

You watched as Mitch pressed the clear glass tumbler to his lips and sipped his nightcap. "I can’t believe you didn’t laugh when that guy said Beowulf."

"Oh, I can’t believe I didn’t either. What an idiot."

"Yea, you definitely shouldn’t talk to anyone that doesn’t appreciate good literature." Mitch commented, the alcohol made him much looser than he normally was.

You smiled, and turned more of your body towards him.. your knee touching his leg, and neither of you moving away. "Then I think I’d only be able to talk to you.."

"That’s fine with me.." Mitch was cut off from the guy that hit on you earlier in the night.

"Maggie.. hey, I've been looking for you all night. It's Brian, from earlier. You know, I can ask the old guy to play something a little bit more upbeat since you still owe me that dance." The man slurred his speech as he ignored Mitch's presence. Brian's friends looked on from the bar, shaking their heads. A few of the other recruits who were also at the bar watched and waited to see what Mitch would do.

"Hey man, I'm Steve, and I think you should probably get some water... hit the hay." Mitch interjected.

"I'm not talking to you, bro. I'm talking to Maggie."

Mitch stood up. "I'd prefer if you didn't since Maggie is my fiancee." You quickly grabbed Mitch's arm with your left hand, obstructing the view of your bare ring finger.

"Steve, sit down, it's okay." You fake begged him.

"Nah, bro, why don't you come tell me to get lost to my face!" The man was belligerent, but Mitch leaned forward anyway. He was feeling suddenly very territorial. You could easily tell that Mitch was ripped through his tight, white shirt and his stature was looming in comparison. Brian's friends came to quickly collect their drunk friend, apologized and dragged him upstairs.

"Oh Steve, thank god for you. I would've hated having to sleep with that guy just to keep my cover in tact." Mitch narrowed his eyes at you, he could hear the sarcasm in your voice. He chuckled and shook his head, sitting back down next to you, and picking his drink back up to take another sip.

"You really saved my ass earlier."

"Actually, Maggie saved your ass." You joked.

Mitch frowned. "Don't undersell yourself. I was watching you all night. You even had me convinced at times that you actually did graduate with those people." Your heart skipped a beat when you heard Mitch say that he had been watching you all night. 

“All night?” You questioned, coyly. You had caught him watching you dance earlier that evening and while tipsy, decided to put on a bit of a show for him. You were pleased that he had noticed.

“All night... and you were good at this.” Mitch reminded you of what he was talking about.

"Thanks.. it's not a big deal though, honestly. It's really just getting your foot in the door and getting them talking. People love to spill their life stories to anyone who will really listen at these sorts of things."

"I'll remember that for next time." Mitch told you. "So where'd you come up with your alias?"

"Maggie was the name of my dog growing up, and the rest of the story is literally just my cousin Francine Sheffield, she's from Portland, we kind of look alike, she has an interesting enough backstory but is still far enough away that..." You shrugged your hands. Mitch understood. "Who's Steven Greene, millionaire financial genius?" You asked.

"My brother."

You looked surprised. "I didn't know you had a brother.. with a different last name then you?"

Mitch laughed, the whiskey really loosening him up. "Well my brother is Steven, and he is doing really well for himself on Wall Street, but the Greene part is just cause Steve loved Rachel Green from Friends growing up, and I don't know, it was just one of those things that I thought of when I was trying to find a good fake last name."

"Do you miss your family?" You asked, leaning closer to hear him over the piano music. You rested your head on the back of the couch, close enough to him that if he bent down, he could feel if your lips were as soft and pillowy as they looked. He had to fight the drunken impulse not to.

He thought about telling you a lie about his family, as not to ruin the mood, but decided he didn't want to lie to you. "I do miss my brother. He's a great guy, and I haven’t seen him in well over a year. But, umm..." Mitch pursed his lips. "My parents died in a car crash when I was fourteen. So I guess I miss them too." He chuckled once to himself, clearly uncomfortable with admitting the truth.

Your heart sunk. You pressed your hand against Mitch's knee and rubbed it. "I'm so sorry, that's devastating..." Mitch shrugged. He was distracted by your touch. "I guess that explains the boarding schools then."

A smile curled in the corner of his mouth. "You really do listen to people when they talk."

You decided to use the alcohol in your system as an excuse to be brazen. "Well, I listen to you at least.... I like talking to you. It's easy and you're interesting."

Mitch downed the rest of his drink, catching the bartender's attention and signaling for another round. He turned back to you, running his long fingers over the back of your hand. "I like talking to you."

His words sent shivers down your spine and you blushed. “Mitch, I..”

The bartender brought over your fresh drinks and interrupted your moment. Mitch looked up at the bartender and then at you, and snapped back to reality. This wasn't a vacation, it wasn't a chance to connect with someone else. This was training to get revenge for Katrina. Mitch downed his drink and stood up.

"I'm gonna turn in. Can I walk you up?" He asked, fidgeting with the watch on his wrist.

You nodded, downed your own drink, slipped your shoes on your feet, grabbed your book and followed him to the elevator bank in the lobby. You both turned as you heard a large group come in from the hotel ballroom, the reunion still raging on. One of the women that had flirted with Mitch earlier saw him as the group walked towards the elevators.

"Oh my god, Steve! Steve! I’m so happy you’re here. We're all heading up to the pool, you should come!" She drunkenly slurred as Mitch, you, the woman, and her group piled into the elevator.

"I'm good." Mitch told her, not looking up, but instead staring down in your Y/E/C eyes. You got pressed up against Mitch as the group shoved themselves into the elevator. He wrapped his arms protectively around you again, like he had earlier that night, but better because he could see your face this time. He stared at the small freckles on your nose and cheeks and your long eyelashes. "Excuse us." Mitch said as the elevator stopped on the recruit’s floor, and he guided you out, his hand resting against the small of your back. He walked down the hall with you, his hand still pressed against your body, until you both made it to your door.

He watched as you dipped the keycard into your door and the green light flashed indicating it was unlocked. You turned the handle and pushed it open slightly. You then turned and looked up at him. "Do you want to come in?" You whispered.

Mitch nodded, his heart racing fast as he accepted your invitation. The alcohol was dampening his guilt, and he couldn't deny how much he wanted you and wanted to not leave you. As he stepped into your room, he heard a latch click on the door next to yours and saw Rob and Julian walk out of their room. "Hey Mitch! Want to come down to the bar with Julian and I?" Rob bellowed.

"Dude..." Julian elbowed Rob. He understood that that wasn't Mitch's room and that it was late.

"What?" Rob was oblivious.

Mitch looked down at you. This wasn't right. Neither of you were sober. His face became pensive. He took his hand off of your waist and placed it in his pocket. "Goodnight, Y/N."

"Goodnight." You said, your face faltering from the rejection, as you closed your door.

"Nah, man. I was just walking Y/N back from down there. I'm gonna go head back to my room and go to bed." Mitch told the two men.

Mitch dipped his keycard into the lock on his door and heard it click. He turned the handle and paused. He thought about going back to your room and seeing you. He shook his head. "Just go to bed, Mitch." He muttered to himself as he closed the door behind him.

[miamibeerscene]

Our Experts Predict The 2018 Restaurant Headlines

As we put a cap on 2017, Eater surveyed a group of friends, writers, and all around experts for their take on the past year. We asked them eight questions: from top standbys to top newcomers, from best meals to restaurants they’ve broken up with. All will be answered by the time we turn off the lights at the end of the 2017. Responses are related in no particular order; all are cut, pasted, and (mostly) unedited herein. Readers, please do add your survey answers in the comments.

Amber Love Bond (Eater Miami contributor):

Food Halls Takeover Miami, Too Many Dining Options

XX Closed After Sexual Harassment Claims (let’s hope not though!)

Nina Compton Comes Back To Miami (wishful thinking)

Miami Chef Wins James Beard Award

Evan Benn (Indulge Miami): [Not Another White Male Chef] to Open Miami’s Most Anticipated New Restaurant

In Miami, there are women and people of color who are executive chefs and restaurant owners, but there ought to be more of them, and we in the media need to do a better job of bringing their voices into the conversation.

Giovanny Gutierrez (Chat Chow TV/Eater Miami photographer): Horse makes a comeback after the USDA removes the ban.

Becky Randel (The Daily Meal/People Magazine):

1. Food Hall Mania!

2. A bit unfortunately, there is a new handful of big-name, non-local chefs opening uber-fancy restaurants in the Design District, which will garner a lot of attention. Those are good for tourism, but we need balance, so I hope to be writing headlines about a group of smaller, more casual, yet high-quality/high-concept restaurants in other neighborhoods. Marcus Samuelson in Overtown may lead the charge.

Belkys Nerey (WSVN 7): Belkys Nerey gains 10 more pounds!

David Rosendorf (Food For Thought):

“50 Food Halls Open in Miami” – January 2018

“25 Food Halls Close in Miami” – August 2018

Matthew Meltzer (Thrillist Miami):

Sexual Harassment Claims at Hooters Rock the Restaurant World

Trump Tax Cuts Lead to Dozens of New Customers at South Beach Hotspots

Stacy Moya (Eater Miami Contributor): New cuts of meat and vegetable carb substitutes—thank goodness!

Virginia Gil (Time Out Miami): Blank food hall is now open! Award-winning chef x is coming to Miami! Miami is becoming a place for people to grow, experiment and even settle down, so we’ll be seeing more trends find their place here (food halls, namely) and big names touch down in the Magic City (looking at you, Thomas Keller).

Carla Torres (Miami New Times):

Phuc Yea opens pho and banh mi concept (oh wait, that JUST happened)

Nina Compton Opens Restaurant in the 305 (a girl can dream, right?)

Jose Andres opens Spanish food hall.

Jeremy Ford nominated (and wins) Best Chef Southeast (fingers crosses).

Olee Fowler (Eater Miami): “People in Miami Become Sick of Food Halls Before 90% of Them Even Open” — I know I sure am sick of writing about them, and only like, one, has debuted so far.

The post Our Experts Predict The 2018 Restaurant Headlines appeared first on Miami Beer Scene.

from Our Experts Predict The 2018 Restaurant Headlines

[bullet-prooflove]

4000 Followers: Barcelona - Matthew Keller x Reader

Tagging: @rosielou94 d @kmc1989@toheavenwmydrms@noxytopy

Companion piece to:

5 Times - Keller almost tells you he loves you.

Three Minutes - It takes three minutes for Matt Keller to lose his humanity.

Transactional - In the wake of your injury, you leave Keller a Dear John letter.

It takes a couple of months for Matt to track you down. You’ve rented an apartment in Barcelona, near the town centre because your working a legal gig for the Picasso Museum. Your business has been flourishing in the time you’ve been apart. You’ve bounced from Frankfurt, Vienna, Milian and now to here. Matt’s always been a few steps behind you, he’s missed you by twelve hours back in Italy.

Matt has never done this before. He doesn’t chase after women, he’s usually the one that does the leaving. The fact he wants to follow you, it speaks volumes.

When you enter the apartment he’s sitting on your couch flicking through a Spanish fashion magazine, his brow furrowed. He sets it down on the coffee table as you close the door behind you.

"I'm not giving you security details for the museum." You tell him drifting towards your desk to check your laptop. To your surprise it looks untouched.  

"You know that's not why I'm here." He says as he raises to his feet and approaches the desk. His fingertips caress the tiny terracotta dog perched on the corner. It’s new, an unusual piece, not expensive but he knows it’s a sign, one that you’re planning to stay for a while.

“No I don’t.” You say distractedly as you close your laptop. “Because you don’t give me a reason behind anything you do, why you leave, why you stay, why you turn up in my place in Barcelona. I get nothing from you Matt.”

“Avery…” He says softly, his palm coming to rest upon yours and you pull away because his touch, it always leads to the same damn thing. “You know how fucked up I am.”

“Yea,” You tell him meeting his gaze. “It’s a good excuse to hide behind when shit gets too real isn’t it?”

This right here, this is why he loves you. You see through all of his bullshit, you call him on it. You are the first person who has ever bothered to scratch beneath the surface of his psyche. The only one that sees him.

“Avery.” He whispers, catching your hand. He squeezes it lightly and your fingers twitch underneath his touch. You don’t have much mobility in it anymore, Woodford saw to that. “Please just let me show you.”

“We’ve played this game before and we both know where it leads.” You say as you draw away, your hand slipping from his. It feels like a knife plunging into his chest but he gets it, your protecting yourself because he is not a safe bet, he never has been.

You watch as he removes his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans before he takes out a ticket stub and places it on the desk beside you.

“This is from the night we went to that art show in MOMA, you were wearing that dress, the blue one with the white flowers.” He murmurs as his hands come to rest on your hips. You tip your head up to look at him and for a moment he allows himself to hope, he prays that this is the time he can finally get the words out. “I remember because…”

…that was the day I fell in love with you.

But the words they just won’t leave his lips, they die in his throat as he cradles your face between his hands, his forehead coming to rest upon yours. He realises in that moment that it’s never going to happen. Those words they’re associated with so many terrible things in his life. There’s no pleasure in them, no joy, there’s just anguish and grief.

“I can’t tell you what you want to hear sweetheart but I promise you I feel it.” Matt whispers against your lips. “I feel it with every fibre of my being."

“You should go.”  You tell him, your palm coming to rest upon his chest before you push him away lightly. “You’re just going to break my heart all over again.”

You twist away from him then, because your eyes are stinging and you don’t want him to see that weakness in you.

“Avery.” He rasps and sigh as you turn back towards him.

“Matt look…” You trail off because the last thing you expect to see is Matthew Keller on one knee in front of you, a little black box in his hand.

You recognise the ring, Alexandrite with an accent marquise cut, set between two diamond leaf clusters in a rose gold band. You’d been devastated when you’d had to sell it to pay Matt’s legal bills but you’d owed him, because he’d killed a man for you, saved you from something worse than death.

There’s a lot of history attached to that ring. It had been taken from your family in the late 1930s along with the rest of their belongings before they’d been shipped off to a concentration camp in Germany. Out of the four family members that went in only one came out, your Grandmother. That ring was the only memory she had had of her own family. It had been the first thing that you and Matt stolen together. It had been residing in a collection of stolen Jewish artwork, along with other Nazi memorabilia. The other shit that man had had in his collection…

You’d burned that place to the fucking ground afterwards.

“I hate shit like this.” Matt had told you after you’d deposited the three stolen pieces of artwork you’d managed to rescue inside Peter Burke’s porch. He’d find it in the morning, get it back to the place it belonged to.

“All she wanted is to see this ring one more time before she died.” You’d told him as you sat in the passenger seat of his car, looking at the circlet inside the tiny black box. “They took everything from her.”

“We did a good thing here tonight.” He’d told you as he’d walked you to your door that evening. “Consider this one on me.”

You’d taken him to bed for the first time that night.

And now he’s on one knee in front of you, with your Grandmother’s ring.

“I might not be able to say it.” He tells you, his eyes meeting yours. “But sweetheart trust me when I say I feel it.”

Love Keller? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[sonufabitchhhhh]

You Were My Oppressor, But Now You Are My Handler

- Matthew Keller x Reader (White Collar)

Prologue

Masterlist

-

Agent y/n s/n walked out of Hughs' office, contemplating a very life changing decision. To most people, it wouldn't seem so impactful, but after witnessing how Peter's life changed after taking on consultant Neal Caffrey, y/n knew it was a big deal. It was with that thought that y/n decided to go talk to Peter before making any final decisions.

"Hey Peter, can I talk to you in your office please?" Y/n asked without giving anything away to idle ears. "And Neal, you can come too, if you don't mind." Peter gestured towards his office, and made towards it, Caffrey seeming more than eager to follow and be in the loop.

"Y/n, why don't you sit down." Peter started. "So, what's all this about?"

"Well, I've been made an offer," both men were leaned in awaiting to hear what y/n had to say, "to be Matthew Keller's handler as he works as a consultant for the F.B.I."

Neal was slack jawed, shocked that Keller was getting out of prison so easy; sure it's the same treatment Neal himself has had, but Keller! Really?!

Peter was a lot calmer, only slightly less surprised that Keller was getting this offer. Neal had proven himself to be such an asset to the F.B.I. it's no surprise the bureau would jump for joy at the thought of having two of them under their belt.

But Peter also knew that a C.I. was a lot of work. And between his and Neal's gut, he trusted Keller a lot less than he trusted Neal.

"I should warn you y/n, having a consultant is a lot of responsibility." Peter supplied, wanting to make sure he gave the facts straight. "Now that's not to say you can't handle it, I'm sure you're more than capable, but these guys... they're slippery. And Keller..."

"He's untrustworthy." Neal finished.

Peter continued on. "If you feel willing to take Keller on, I say go for it! But make sure you have a constant eye on him. Don't trust him. At least not right away. He may give you a reason to trust him in time, but in the beginning it's best to assume guilty until proven innocent."

"Peter's right." Neal didn't seem happy about the prospect of Keller cutting a deal, but seemed willing to help advise y/n all the same. "By the sounds of it, the bureau's got their heart set on Keller, so if not you, someone else will take him on. Y/n, if you become Keller's handler, you'll at least have me around to ask about him - I've known Keller a long time, and I know what he's like. And I'm willing to sell him out, we're not exactly friends."

Y/n contemplated their words, thinking long and hard about the implications of being Keller's handler.

"Guess I better go tell Hughs the good news!" Y/n stood up smiling. On her way out the door, y/n stopped and added, "Oh, and Caffrey? I hope you make friends with Keller eventually, you'll be seeing a lot more of him!"

-

A/N: hey, so this is the first part to my Keller x Reader story! It's sad that there's not more fics for him, I'm a sucker for the villains. Anyway, I hope you like this, and if you have any suggestions for the story, lmk in the comments!

P.s. the title is a lyric by Muse from a song called The Handler, just thought I'd let you know!

Hope you have a great day/night,

~ SonofaBeach

[bullet-prooflove]

Oh please, if this prompt "But you can steal a kiss, I won't call you a thief But take it from me What I got to give you can have for free" is not for Matthew Keller, I don't know what is!

Tagging: @rosielou94 d @kmc1989 @toheavenwmydrms @fangirling-alert @soultrysworld

Prequel to:

My Girl (NSFW) - Noone puts hands on Keller's girl.

One More Night - Keller doesn't know when he came so sentimental.

Merlot - Keller misses you more than he'll admit.

Trust (NSFW) - You send Keller a message when he returns to New York.

Starry Night - Keller gives you the stars.

Dysfunctional - This thing between the two of you works because it's dysfunctional.

Honeypot (NSFW) - Keller doesn't realise you had a prior relationship with Woodford.

5 Times - Keller almost tells you he loves you.

Three Minutes - It takes three minutes for Matt Keller to lose his humanity.

Transactional - In the wake of your injury, you leave Keller a Dear John letter.

Barcelona - Matt finally shows you just how much you mean to him.

It’s the night you steal back your grandmother’s ring back that things between you and Keller change. Up until then you’ve seen him for exactly what he is, a thief, a liar, a manipulator, all the things you’ve needed to pull off this heist. It isn’t until the two of you were sitting inside the car outside Peter Burke’s place that you realise there’s so much more to him. There’s an empathy that he keeps hidden underneath all that armour, a moral code that’s tucked away amongst the shades of grey he wraps himself. After all it was him that supplied the can of gasoline to destroy that Nazi scum bag’s collection. Him who handed you the match box.

“I fucking hate these guys.” He’d said as he poured the fuel around the room, all over the teeth and the baby shoes. “They’re fucking animals.”

It’s you who lights the match, who flicks it into the room and watches the whole entire thing ignite. You hope it frees those souls trapped in there, that it cleanses them.

You don’t expect him to walk you to your doorstep, you didn’t think it was his style but he’s surprised you tonight and he just keeps surprising you.

“Be sure to get rid of these clothes yea?” He says his fingertips trailing lightly along the collar of your jacket. “We don’t need anything tying us back to that asshole.”

“Maybe you should help me out of them, take them with you when you go.” You whisper as his thumb traces along the line of your jaw and he smiles as he leans in close.

“Alright sweetheart. I can do that.”

You’re surprised by how tender his kiss, the softness of his lips. It’s nothing more but the brush of his mouth over yours but it unleashes something inside of you, something wild, raw and passionate.

You don’t remember unlocking the door or even making it through the hall, all you can focus on is the sensation of his body pressed against you, the molten heat of his skin. When you tumble onto the bed, he pauses for a moment, his dark eyes glittering as he looks down at you.

You look beautiful, skin flushed, shirt open. You’re wearing black lace underneath and it highlights your sensuality, his palm comes to rest on your throat and your hips arch against him, breath hitching.

“Oh sweetheart,” He drawls as his thumb traces over your lower lip. “The two of us are going to have some fun tonight.”

Love Keller? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[bullet-prooflove]

Send me a made-up fic title and I'll tell you what I would write to go with it

5 Times That Matthew Keller Almost Said "I Love You" and the 1 Time He Finally Did

The first night he killed for you. He has no problem with putting a bullet in anyone or using a knife if it’s protecting his own interests. You were just another partner, someone he needed to help pull off the con, he shouldn’t give a shit about leaving you high and dry even if he is sleeping with you. But he finds himself lingering, waiting for you to exit the building and then you just don’t… So he does back in, he sees that security guard with his hands on you, touching you and honestly he loses his shit. This isn’t a reaction, it’s overkill. He shoots the fucker in the chest until the clip runs out, until the gun stops discharging bullets. It’s later that night when he’s fucking you, that the words almost roll off his lips. He’s looking into your eyes and he can’t stop thinking about the fear he felt in that moment, the rage and he realises that he would do anything for you, anything you god damn asked him.

There’s a night when he comes home from casing a job, you’re standing there in nothing but his shirt, painting on a canvas, it’s something you do for fun, to relax. You’re good at it, some of your work hangs in the indie galleries. It’s how you met, him studying your work during one of the shows he was vetting. He realises that he likes, coming home to you, watching you, being with you. He likes it a lot. When he comes to stand behind you, he wraps his arms around you, his face buried in your throat and he thinks this is home, this is the place he’s meant to be. He almost whispers it against your skin, but he stops himself. He always stops himself.

The morning he leaves. He wakes up beside you, it’s the third night in a row he’s told himself he’s going, the third night in a row he’s stayed. His thumb chases over the apple of your cheek and he finds himself smiling because you just look so beautiful when you sleep, his lips brush over yours and it is just the sweetest sensation. He almost says it then, I love you, I want to stay here with you but he catches himself because doing that means admitting he’s vulnerable and Keller, he just can’t allow himself to do that so he forces himself to leave, to sell the Degas and disappear to Europe.

The night he calls you from a hotel room in Europe. He’s drunk on an expensive bottle of wine and he’s just fucked another woman but he can’t stop thinking about you, how he wishes he was fucking you, sleeping with you. After she leaves he picks up the phone and calls you but he gets your voicemail and he almost says it then, he almost says I love you, I miss you but he doesn’t. Instead he listens to the sound of your voice over and over again until he falls asleep.

When he comes back. He stands on the balcony and he watches you fuck another man. He knows you’re teaching him a lesson, that he deserves it but it but it hurts like a hell. That night when he comes to you, when he submits to you, he almost tells you then. His hands are bound above his head and you’re riding him slowly, your gaze locked on his. There’s such an intimacy in that moment, such sensuality. He can’t explain what it does to him to be back here like this with you. You don’t understand how much I love you, he almost says, how much it scares me.

When he does say it, he’s holding you in his arms and there’s blood on your lips because Woodford, he figured it out, that you didn’t want him, that you didn’t love him so he shot you, he shot you in the chest. He left you to die in the bed where Matt made love to you this morning, where he kissed you goodbye before he moved millions for that man.

“I love you,” Matt whispers as he cradles you against to his chest. “Don’t you dare leave me here alone.”

Love Keller? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

@kmc1989 @toheavenwmydrms @rosielou94 @noxytopy 

[bullet-prooflove]

Hello! May I please have something for Matthew Keller x Reader with the song prompt: "I love the way you could see the good in everything."

Companion piece to Five Times

When you die, Matt’s humanity dies with you because you, you're the good in him.

You’re gone for almost three minutes, it’s the longest fucking three minutes of his life.

In those three minutes he stands up and walks away because the agony in his chest it’s too much, he can’t fathom a world without you in it. When they bring you back there’s just this rage vibrating through his body, this violence that he can’t contain.

It doesn’t shift when the doctor’s tell him that you’re going to pull through, in fact it grows when they tell him that you’re looking at a long recovery, that there may be deficits.

Deficits…

The word is bitter on his tongue.

He’s told he can’t see you when you come out of surgery, not until they transfer you to the ICU, he rallies against it but they rally right back. It’s for your safety, not his peace of mind.

He spends that time plotting Woodford’s demise, all the horrible, evil shit he’s going to do to that man. He imagines, strangling him, beating him to death, putting a bullet in every single one of his joints. They’re all too quick.

Poison is what he decides on, he knows just the one. It’s slow, agonising, it’ll make Woodford feel like his insides are burning from the inside out and he wants that, he wants that man to suffer for what he did to you.

It isn’t hard to obtain, it isn’t hard to spike his drink either. A couple of drops injected through the cork of the expensive bottle of champagne he has waiting for him in hotel room.

That son of a bitch, he stayed in New York after what he did to you. He thought you’d pass quietly into the night but Matt’s girl, she’s always been a fighter, you’d managed to hold on long enough for him to get home.

When Woodford first starts to feel the effects of the poison  he’s  surprised when Matt steps out of the shadows. He stands over Woodford, watching as the other man asphyxiates, as he claws at his skin, as he begs for help.

“You deserve this.” He tells the other man. “For everything you did to her.”

Its in that moment that Woodford makes the connection. The reason he tried to kill you is because you refused to sleep with him, because you were in love with another man, in love with him.

When you wake up, he’s right there at your bedside, hand holding yours.

“Hey there beautiful.” He says softly as he raises to his feet. His thumb chases over the apple of your cheek as the edges of his mouth tip up into a smile. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got shot in the chest.” You croak and his lips purse into a grim line because that image of you, lying on that bed, blood seeping into the sheets, it haunts him.

“I know.” He murmurs as he leans in close, his lips brushing lightly over your forehead. “He can’t hurt you anymore, I’ve taken care of that.”

Love Keller? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Interested in supporting me? Join my Patreon for Bonus Content!

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

@rosielou94 d @kmc1989 @toheavenwmydrms @noxytopy