#casually murdering the opposition

[sketching-shark]

All dark humor aside, in retrospect possessed lego show SWK was kind of close to the scariest aspect of the Monkey King in the og classic, i.e. an calculating, ruthless, and unstoppable force with 0 scruples against using ultra-violence to achieve his goals & who could and did relentlessly attack even people he had been close friends with (the Demon Bull King) if they were in the way (@_@)

[upsidedownwithsteve]

Steve Harrington x fem!reader 18+ [6K] friends with benefits, but oh no! there's feelings. canon adjacent, kind of? smut, summer, car sex.

You heard the rev of the engine just before the headlights flashed over your bedroom window, casting shadows over your sheets, your own silhouette on the wallpaper. You didn’t need to look to know who it was, the sound of the car idling across your street, waiting. 

You did anyway, fingers parting the slats of the blinds as you turned off your television, grabbing a sweater to shove on, feet stuffed into sneakers as the knit fell to just above the hem of your skirt. A few months ago you would’ve rushed to check your reflection in a mirror, sprayed some perfume, dabbed on some gloss, maybe a cherry flavoured balm on your lips. Now, you just grabbed a set of keys from the dish in the hallway before you closed the front door as quietly as you could. You should’ve told your parents, you knew that. Hawkins wasn’t as safe as it used to be, teenagers getting murdered in broad daylight, an Indiana summer scape being used as the scene for some ripped off horror movie plotline. 

But sneaking off into the night with a pretty boy was all part and parcel of being young, wasn’t it?

The BMW was parked under a street lamp opposite your driveway and when he saw you making your way down, the boy got out of his car, greeting you at the passenger side with a kiss that he ducked down to give you eagerly before opening the door. 

It wasn’t always like that. The terms and conditions of this… situation, used to be a lot more strict. There were rules that came with hooking up with the guy from the video store next door. A casual fuck at a party became accidentally more and long gone were the days that you’d been pressed against a wall by someone who was more man than boy now, stubble scratching across your chin and jaw as you kissed him, tongues tasting like tequila, like cherry vodka and cheap beer. 

And you’d had enough sense left in you that night to pull away, gasping, panting, your hands in his hair as his snuck up your shirt, just barely, thumbs pushing nicely into your waist. You’d let your half lidded eyes drag across his pretty features and recognition managed to take over drunken hormones, over want. 

“Hey, you’re the guy that works in Family Video, right?”

And he’d nodded, smiling a little lopsided as his gaze stayed on your lips a second too long, loving the way they were glossy and bitten red by him. “Mhmm,” the boy had said. “Steve. You’re the ice cream girl.”

Not much else was said that night, not when the girl from the ice cream shop liked the way the boy from the video store tasted. You liked the way Steve held you, how he pressed you into a dark corner of someone’s house party, his eyes only on you even when there were so many other girls trying to get his attention. He’d walked you home when the sun was coming up, his sports jacket draped over your shoulders, your shoes in your hands. You’d written your number on his hand with an eyeliner pencil, smudged but there. 

He’d kissed you again when your neighbours sprinklers turned on, when the birds started singing from the cherry trees out back. It was a soft thing, too soft and too gentle not to mean much but when he pulled back, he squinted at you, looking regretful. 

“I, uh, I’m not looking for anything serious right now,” he confessed. Steve looked sad about it. “I don’t wanna lead you on— I just, there’s a lot going on right now, you know?”

You didn’t know, but you understood. So you nodded and shrugged, the boy's jacket moving against your shoulders and you could smell his cologne, the smoke from the party, your own perfume where it now lingered on the collar. 

So you said, “that’s okay. Doesn’t have to be serious, if we don’t want it to be. We can just… I don’t know. Hang out.”

Steve grinned that night, pleased, cheeks a little pink, ‘cause you both knew what hanging out meant. So he nodded too, told you to keep his jacket and that he’d get it back later, told you he’d see you soon and maybe he could take you for a drive or something. 

Casual, no labels, no expectations. No feelings. 

You were pretty certain that was the night you started falling for Steve Harrington. 

—————

You took Steve’s offered kiss with your chin tilted up, trying hard not to smile, failing when he held out a hand for you to hold as you ducked into the car. He shut the door for you, crossed the front of the beemer, lit up by the headlights, his white t-shirt hanging loose around his collarbones, threadbare and worn. His hair wasn’t done like he usually didn’t it, the messy strands falling across his forehead instead of pushed back. It made him look softer, like the Steve you’d grown to know past midnight. 

It had been months since that party. Months of hooking up on lunch breaks, using the staff room of the ice cream parlour to make out in instead of sharing food, rushing to Steve’s parked car to fool around in the back, letting the windows steam up, a sight too salacious for daylight. You didn’t date, Steve didn’t take you out to dinner, or the movies. You didn’t ask him too. Neither of you had met the other's parents, or friends. You knew a lot about Steve’s life, but you weren’t exactly enveloped in it. 

That’s how it was supposed to be. Just sex. Fun. 

But then Hawkins fell to scandal, a murderer on the loose, a boy you once knew from school. Weird goings on, strange sounds from the forest, news crews parked on streets, hoping for the latest story. Steve wasn’t around as much and when you did see him, he was with people you didn’t know as well. Nancy Wheeler, a kid called Dustin, Max Mayfield and another boy from the school basketball team. 

You’d watch across the street as Steve closed up the video store hours too early with Robin Buckley, rushing to his car with his friends in tow like there was some sort of emergency. So lunch hour sex sessions turned into late night drives, when the rest of the town was asleep and every house you passed was lit up by the street lights, by the aquamarine glow of backyard pools. 

Subtle changes happened first. There were still no dates, no talk of feelings. In fact, whatever was stressing Steve seemed to only be fixed by fucking you. He wasn’t rough about it, not mean, nor careless. But there was a different kind of urgency when he parked up somewhere dark and hidden, pushing his lips to yours and sighing hard like he’d been waiting all day to taste you. Eyes closed, forehead pressed to yours as he let you pant into his parted lips, quiet, soft noises mixing with the slap of his hips against yours. And when you were both fully dressed again and he was ready to take you home, he pressed extra kisses to your cheeks, your hand. 

He’d stare at you, longer than he used to, eyes filled with something you weren’t able to place yet and the boy would tell you to promise him you’d be safe. 

Steve would watch you until you made it inside, he’d do that all the time. But now he was in the habit of only pulling away when he saw your bedroom light flick on, your silhouette waving to him from behind the glass. 

After that, Steve took to kissing you more and more, sex not required. A kiss hello, sweet and chaste, a kiss goodbye, longing, meaningful - even if you didn’t know what it was yet. He was touchy, more open, talking to you and opening up when you’d get into his car and see the boy’s tired eyes. He’d tell you it was fine, that it was nothing for you to worry about. But you spotted a bat in the back seat footwell once, an old looking thing with fucking nails poking out the top.  

Steve had turned a little ashen when you stared at him, promising you earnestly that it was only for protection. You know, because of everything that was going on. You weren’t sure what made you believe him so easily, but you did. Night time drives turned into make outs broken up with Steve burrowing his face into your neck as you raked your hands through his hair. You’d watch him grow sluggish, words drowsy as he spoke about how the bad guys aren’t always bad, are they? And should we really believe what the cops on TV are telling us? And wouldn’t all of this just be so much easier if people had superpowers?

You weren’t sure what any of it was supposed to mean, but you’d nodded and dotted your lips over his hairline, letting him lean heavy against you until he scrubbed a hand over his face and coaxed you into his lap, telling you softly that he’d feel a lot fucking better if he got to make you fall apart with his fingers. 

You let him. And you returned the favour too. 

—————

You knew tonight was different by the way Steve was white knuckling the stick shift, antsy as he brought his touch to your bare thigh instead. He rubbed his thumb there, exhaled heavily when you covered his hand with your own. 

“Are you okay?” You asked him quietly. You didn’t dare break the quiet, the one that only came with driving out of town when the sky was inky, when the wheat fields whispered in the breeze and the bus stops stood empty. Hawkins was asleep, but there was something that Summer that made the town feel less than peaceful. Maybe it was the ‘wanted’ posters on every street light. Eddie Munson’s face staring back at you. “Steve?”

“Yeah, yeah, m’fine.” He glanced at you, taking his eyes off the road for a second or two. He looked heavy, like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Atlas, the man with the earth on his back, cast in marble, ready to crumble. “Just a little stressed ‘bout stuff, that’s all.” 

It was the same answer he always gave. You assumed it was his parents - his dad and his relentless tenacity about his job, his future. Maybe it was Keith, giving him a hard time about shifts. Maybe he had a friend in trouble. You were ready to ask, to pry a little deeper when the boy said:

“You’re not, uh—  you don’t get headaches, do you? Like bad ones.”

You squinted at him, confused. You watched the streetlights run over his features, casting the boy in a white-yellow glow before they stopped completely, signalling you’d reached the edge of town. The water tower passed you both by, only fields, the road and stars for company now. 

“Um, no more than anyone else who works with sugar loaded ice cream and six year old customers all day,” you joked. “Why?”

Steve didn’t laugh, shit, he didn’t even smile. He looked as serious as before and he ignored your question in favour of asking his own. His hand squeezed at your knee, affectionate, his thumb running circles into the inside of your leg before he had to let go to shift gears. “You don’t have nightmares, do you?”

You were really confused now. You leaned back against the door, watching as empty farm pastures blurred past Steve’s face. His lips were pressed right, concern in every part of his face, drawn in there like it was permanent. He looked tired, scared. Your throat drew tight. “Steve, is something wrong?”

“You’d tell me, right?” Steve was slowing the car down, pulling into an empty gas station lot that sat on an desolate road a few miles out of town. The place hasn’t been used in years, the pumps empty, the shutters on the windows covered in graffiti. But the neon sign above the roof still flickered, bathing you both in red and purple lights. “You’d tell me if something was bothering you? If you felt like…” Steve swallowed harshly searching for the right words. “If you didn’t feel safe?”

You unclipped your belt to lean forward, your hand resting on Steve’s thigh. Your brow was furrowed in concern, a worry knotting in your chest because you’d never seen the boy this serious. “Steve, what?” You watched as the boy exhaled again, a heavy, shaking thing and he looked at you with the most tender eyes. “Hey, hey, Steve, what’s going on? Talk to me.”

Steve swallowed, throat bobbing hardly and his face crumpled, frustration and worry easily read. He was scarlet lights and inky shadows, neon purple bathing the dashboard as rain started to fall on the windscreen. Light drops of it, dotting here and there until it got heavier and heavier, a dull roar against the car roof. Water droplets slid down the windows, racing each other and Steve tried to find the words. 

He couldn’t. 

“I can’t, I’m sorry, I can’t really explain. Not right now,” Steve dragged a hand through his already messy and he truly did look apologetic. He looked so tired. “Just, please, you’d tell me if something was wrong, right? If you needed help with something, or, or, someone to talk to? You’d come to me, wouldn’t you? You know you can talk to me? About anything? This— this isn’t all sex, I know, fuck, I know it was supposed to be but, shit, we care about each other right? I, I care about you— ”

You nodded, eyes wide, moving as close as could over the middle console, the parking brake digging into your tummy so you could clasp his cheeks between your hands. You soothed your thumbs over the slight stubble there, eyes searching his, wondering if you’d find any answers there. You didn’t. So instead you kept nodding, hoping the boy would believe you. 

“I’d tell you, Steve. I’d come to you, it’s okay. I’m fine, yeah? There’s nothing to worry about, not with me, okay?” Your voice was urgent, hushed, a frantic whisper almost drowned out by the rain. 

But your words seemed to soothe the boy and he visibly relaxed, face leaning into your touch. “So, no nightmares?” He asked again. 

“No nightmares,” you promised him and he turned his face into your palm, kissing the skin there, the way a boyfriend would. It made your stomach flip, an undeniably tender gesture. “Are you okay?”

Steve nodded, eyes closing briefly to gather himself and the lights made the shadows under his lashes turn a deep ruby red. The rain splashed the hood of the car, puddles in the forecourt, purple lights reflecting back like an oil spill. “Yeah. I’m sorry, fuck, it’s just— I wish I could tell you.” Steve let his head fall back onto the seat when you moved your hands. “You must think I’m insane, right?”

You smiled wryly, bringing your feet up to rest on the dash, a move he would’ve told you off - semi jokingly - a few weeks ago for. “No more than I did when I first met you.” Your skirt gathered at your thighs with the move, pooling in the cradle there, cheap silk, lilac and more suited for a trip to the mall rather than a rainy night. But Steve tracked the movement, gaze dropping to the bare skin it uncovered before his eyes found your own again. “And for the record, Harrington, I care about you too.”

It seemed to break something in the boy, those earnest words, real enough to shatter, to make someone crumble in the best way. He punched out the breath he’d been holding and he leant his cheek against the headrest, eyes on you, amazingly soft. “I just wanna keep you safe,” he whispered and the statement made your heart ache. 

This wasn’t part of the agreement. This wasn’t even in the rule book. 

“I am safe,” you whispered back, brow still wrinkled in confusion. “Is this about Eddie Munson? The police are looking for him, Steve, they’ll find him soon—”

“Somethin’ like that,” Steve tried to smile but it was thin and tight lipped. “I didn’t mean to worry you, m’sorry.”

You smiled, still confused but eager to bring the boy out of his strange mood. You wanted to help, you wanted to comfort. “It’s okay,” you told him, soothing a hand over his thigh again. “You don’t have to worry ‘bout little, old me.”

Something in Steve’s expression told you maybe all he really did was worry about you. But he didn’t say anything more about it, not then. He just slid his hand over your own, let his fingers wrap around your wrist and climb up your forearm, tugging gently. “Hey, c’mere,” he whispered and you knew that look, you knew that tone of voice. 

Wanting, needy. Desperation coloured it this time, something new. 

He’d normally meet you in the backseat, lips crashing in the middle, a faux argument about who was on top that time. But instead, Steve just coaxed you onto his lap, sliding his chair back from the wheel to make room for you, your legs spread in either side of his hips. He seemed greedy for you, wide palms sneaking under your sweater immediately, the stitch between his brows softening once he got his hands on you. 

“Wanna touch you,” the boy sighed and he sounded far away, voice dreamlike now you were closer, like his worries had been eased. “Can I? Wanna make you feel good, think ‘bout it all the time,” he confessed, leaning in until his forehead was pressed to yours, his chin tilted up to meet you, noses bumping. 

You nodded, eyes falling shut because all you wanted to do was feel. It was easy with Steve, easy to close off the rest of the world and put all your trust in him. The cocoon of his car felt safe, warm and smelling like leather and his cologne, the hazy light filtering through the rain on the windshield, a kaleidoscope of crimson and violet. 

“Yeah, please,” you nodded and your voice sounded so much softer and smaller than before, like you were giving into it, like you were begging him. 

Maybe you were. 

His hands found the hem of your sweater at the same time yours found his, but you tugged at his cotton shirt with more insistence. You watched his face falter, like he was remembering something. You frowned, fingertips searching under the material for the familiar feel of his warm skin, the trail of hair that led down his navel and into the band of his underwear. Your brow wrinkled deeper when you found something scratchy, a crinkled band that seemed to wrap around him. He flinched when you pressed your palm to it. 

“Steve— what—?”

“Babe,” Steve tried to placate you with sweetness, his eyes worried, his hands holding your waist and pulling you closer. “Jus’ leave it on, yeah? It’s—”

“Are you hurt?” 

You couldn’t help it, worry and panic taking over and you hated that you didn’t listen to the boy but you were tugging up the hem of his top before he could protest. A bandage was wound around his torso, crisscrossing at his stomach, climbing up to the bottom of his ribs. There was a dark shadow under the right side, like there was a bruise hiding there, or worse. 

Suddenly, all the talk of keeping you safe seemed laughable. Your eyes watered at the sight of him, the skin that peeked out from the edges of the wrap a little mottled, an angry red mixing with green and yellow. “What happened?” You sounded distraught and the watery concern Steve that could hear was thick in your throat and it made him fucking ache. 

“Nothing,” he tried to lie, but he sounded tired, like all he did was avoid the truth. “I’m okay, I swear. I promise you. I just, I just took a bad fall. Bruised my ribs, caught myself on somethin’ sharp, or  whatever, but I’m good.”

You didn’t believe him. Your heart was telling you not to. But Steve Harrington was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and he was too exhausted to argue. You stared at him, saw how he pleaded with you, silent, hopeless.  

Your hands found his jaw, thumbs smoothing over the apples of his cheeks and held him like he was precious. He was. So much more than some guy you found in the dark corners of a stranger’s house party. Who would’ve thought?

“Are you in trouble?” Your voice wobbled. You felt helpless. You were trying to tamp down the ugly thoughts in your head, wondering about all the worst case scenarios, thinking about the kinds of people who could do this to someone. You wondered if your dad could help, if he’d give you some cash if that’s what Steve needed, the spare room, a way out— “can I help? What can I do to help?”

“No, no,” Steve answered with a new sense of urgency, eyes wide. “No, listen, you’re staying far away from it all, okay?”

The fact Steve didn’t deny that there was something to fear, that there was something he was caught up in - something he wasn’t telling you - made your worry spike even more. “Steve, what the fuck is go—” 

You were cut off by a kiss. A crushing thing, all consuming and it swallowed your words, your worries, your tears. Steve was warm all over, his lips just as hot, soft and plush and always tasting like mint chapstick. He chased your mouth as you went to pull away, an argument still on your tongue but he kissed you until you turned pliant, hands falling from where they’d been planted on his chest to winding around his neck. You made a soft noise of defeat when his tongue licked over the seam of your lips, your mouth opening for him, the kiss turning deeper. You took in the sound of Steve’s shaky gasps, the way his hands mapped out the curve of your back, the dip of your waist. 

Steve kissed you until you both couldn’t breathe. 

You pulled away panting, eyes heavier and half lidded than before and Steve’s were no better. He was trying to coax you back, his fingers on your chin but you were reminded about what lay under his shirt and your features were crumpling with concern again. 

“M’gonna hurt you, I’m too heavy,” you whispered, aghast, shifting onto your knees awkwardly as if you suddenly just realised you were sitting on his lap. “Steve.”

“No, hey,” Steve protested, squeezing at your waist until you sat back on his lap. He whispered your name, serious. “You’re not hurting— Jesus, stay please? I’m fine, okay? Please. Babe, please, just…” he looked up at you, words trailing off and lingering in the small space that was between you both, floating in the red-purple light. 

It was still raining. 

“What do you need?” You asked him and you tried not to let your eyes turn glassy but the boy underneath you was gazing at you like you were the first one to ask him such a question in years. “What can I do to help, Steve, huh? I’ll do it, okay?”

“Need you,” Steve managed to choke out and he looked lost, he looked desperate but his eyes were hungry and falling to your lips and god, god, his hands were trailing up the sides of your ribs and he was groaning softly when he found you’d left your bra at home. “I swear to god, I promise, I just need you.”

It made it easy to fall into him, lips pressed to his as you tried to hold yourself off of the boy, just slightly, enough to hopefully not cause the boy any pain. But Steve was having none of it, sighing against your mouth and tugging you forward, his hands gripping your hips, sliding underneath your sweater and along the waistband of your skirt. He groaned, a sound you knew well, his lips chasing yours as he kept you pressed down in his lap, the cotton of your underwear pushed to the denim of his jeans. You kissed him back, pliant before turning eager, your hands clutching at his shoulders as you resisted the urge to roll your hips over him. 

“Don’t wanna hurt you,” you whispered again and you sounded scared, worried. “Steve.”

“Shhh,” Steve soothed you with a hand on your jaw, tugging you back, keeping you grounded against his. His thumb was pushing to your cheek, trailing down to catch over your lip, his mouth ghosting over yours. Your noses knocked, breaths mixing. “S’okay, m’fine, yeah? You’re fine, babe.”

Steve watched through hooded eyes as he coaxed you into moving, a gentle back and forth of your hips over his and he smiled, nodding when you let out a soft noise, forehead falling to rest against his own. “There you go, there she is,” Steve whispered and it felt fond, it felt familiar, the way he spoke, the way he held you. 

It didn’t feel like something friends did, not even friends with certain benefits. Not anymore. Not with the way he was looking at you. 

“I just need to, fuck,” Steve let his head fall back onto the chair, chin tilted up to watch your face, the scrunch of your nose when something made you feel good. He was blue in the shadows, navy, inky. Scarlet skin, red cheeks, purple lights making him ultraviolet. “I just need to feel you, I’ve not stopped thinkin’ about it all day, I swear. Is that crazy?”

You shook your head, lips parting as you let out a heavy breath, the kick up of Steve’s cock in his jeans hitting your clit just right. You kept rolling your hips, slow, even strokes over him. “No, s’not crazy,” you let out a quiet whine, chasing Steve’s touch as he gripped your hips a little tighter. “Think ‘bout you too.”

“Just wanna— wanna switch off sometimes, you know?” Steve groaned when you reached for the button of his jeans, wrapping an around your waist as he lifted his hips and helped you tug the denim down one handed. “Bein’ with you, it helps. It helps so much. I just wanna get lost in you— baby—”

Steve cut himself off with a groan, eyes clenched shut and the term of endearment falling from his lips too easily. You’d ached as he spoke, staring at his soft eyes, the tiredness around them, busying yourself with freeing his cock from from his boxers until you knelt up a little and pulled your own underwear to the side. 

You were already wet from his kisses, the way he’d helped your rock your hips over his, but god. God, Steve was a stretch. The boy would normally work at you before hand, legs spread for him in the backseat so he could fit two fingers inside, his tongue and mouth helping ease you, melt you. Then he’d give you inch by inch, jaw unhinged and eyes dark as he talked you through it, telling you how good you were at taking his cock. 

Desperation won over this time, though. It took a little squirming, a wriggle of your hips and a sharp gasp until he was fully seated inside of you and there was always a dull burn as you did. It was worth it though, to feel so suddenly full, to watch the way Steve’s brain seemed to glitch at the feeling of you wrapped so tightly around him. He moaned, brows scrunched together as he pressed his fingertips into your hips so hard you were sure he’d leave a lavender coloured map of touches behind.  

“Shit, shit,” the boy gasped out and he clung to you as you did him, pulling you into his chest so he could wrap both arms around you, big hands spanning across you back. “Baby, fuck, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

You felt breathless at the sensation, stuffed full, your nose pressed to Steve’s neck as he surrounded you, as he held you. You shifted, just slightly, adjusting as he throbbed inside of your cunt and Steve hissed sharply through his teeth. 

“You’re gonna make me fuckin’ come, ohmygod.”

You laughed, softly, not at all mean and pressed a kiss to his cheek, nuzzling closer as you stayed still, just for a minute. “Easy, cowboy,” you murmured. Steve’s hands moved to your ass cheeks, grabbing them, kneading them. “You okay?”

He nodded and you pulled back enough to see the way his cheeks flushed pink, lips parted and eyes flutter closed. The boy sucked in a breath. “Yeah. Yeah, you just feel so fucking good. You’re so warm,” he marvelled. 

It was getting harder and harder to stay still, your cunt clenching around Steve’s cock, making you both gasp, soft noises falling from each of your mouths and it was anyone other than Steve, you would’ve seen embarrassed at the wetness gathering at the base of his cock, coating the insides of your thighs. “Can I move?” You asked him, whispering. 

Steve nodded, too blissed out already, his pretty brown eyes getting that far away look to them. Hazy, fuzzy, dreamlike. He seemed less tired now, less stressed, less tense. So you lifted yourself up gently before settling back down on him, the tip of his cock nudging deep inside of you and it made you cry out, a strangled sound that Steve stole with a kiss. He kissed you through it all, hands everywhere at once, roaming over you, sneaking under skirts and sweaters to slide over your bare skin, like he was making sure you were real. 

There was a neediness to it all that surpassed hormones and urges. 

So you let him, kissed him back with just as much fervour as you rode him, hips moving slow and gentle, the pressure building between you both, filling the air in the car, filling the cracks between your ribs and it made you spin, it made you dizzy. You kissed Steve until he didn’t look so blue anymore, and when you pulled back, letting him mourn at your neck, your jaw, your chin, the rain had stopped and the purple light above the gas station was flickering. 

“Steve,” you sighed, your voice cracking, watery. 

“I know,” the boy mumbled back and he sounded the same. 

You were staring into his eyes when you came. One hand pressed between your sticky thighs as you pushed mean fingers to your clit, the other in Steve’s hair, holding him to you, anchoring yourself. Steve swore as he felt you tighten around him, pussy fluttering as you came, movements turning a little messy and unbalanced but the boy gripped you under the ass and helped you move through it all, fingernails leaving crescent moon marks on your skin. 

“M’close,” Steve groaned, pressing his face into the crook of your neck and you could feel the heat from his cheeks, the softness of his hair against your throat. “Fuck, babe, I’m so goddamn close, where—?”

You doubled down on your efforts despite your shaky thighs, despite how sensitive you were. You rocked over him, pace quickening, wanting nothing more than to make Steve fall apart. You heard him gasp, lips parting against your neck, heavy breaths falling over your skin. You held him to you, let him bury himself there, helped him hide until he could piece himself back together again. 

“Inside,” you told him and your voice didn’t sound like yours anymore. You sounded wrecked, wild, desperate. It’s not something you and Steve did often, in fact, you’d only done it once before and you’d both been too tipsy to really remember it. But you were on the pill and Steve trusted you as much as you trusted him. “Wanna feel it, Steve, please, inside—”

“Oh, fuck!” Steve gasped as he came, hips bucking up into you with a little less rhythm than before  and he abandoned his grip on your ass to wrap his arms around you again, pulling you in, crushing you to his chest. He held you, pumping you full, cock twitching as he cried out, the sound muffled against your cheek. He whispered your name, a prayer. “Fuck, fuck. Baby.”

You could feel how hard his heart was beating, your cheek pressed to his chest as the rain started back up, heavy drops on the car roof, more lines trailing down the steamed up windows. You could hear Steve’s soft pants in between, his breath huffing over your hairline. You felt the boy skin his lips over the same spot, his nose pressed to your forehead. 

“You okay?” He whispered and you nodded, pulling back enough to look at him. 

He looked so much softer than before, the harsh lines gone, tension released. Steve ran a hand over your cheek and you leaned into it, kissing his palm. “I should be asking you that.” You brushed a gentle hand over his side, where you knew his bruise lay under his shirt. “Did I hurt you?”

“Quite the opposite,” Steve laughed, soft, quiet. The rain was growing louder, heavier. He was still inside you, heavy, warm, big. It was a comfort you didn’t want to read too much into. “Feel cured,” he joked. 

You huffed out a breath of a laugh, smiling, cheeks warm and you winced as you shifted up on your knees and Steve made a soft noise, cooing at you as he held your waist and helped you move. You bit your lip as you moved your stretched out underwear back into place, your body burned at the feel of Steve’s come slipping from between your folds, warm, wet. 

“I don’t even have anything to help clean you up,” Steve murmured apologetically, but he would’ve been lying if the idea of you going home full of him didn’t make his dick twitch again. 

“S’okay,” you told him and when you made to move off Steve’s lap, the boy gripped your thighs. 

You looked at him, brows raised, because this was normally the part of the night where you fell back into the passenger seat, satisfied and a little numb, laughing over a stupid joke Steve cracked before he drove you home and kissed you goodnight. “Stay,” he asked, whispering. You watched him swallow roughly, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Can you just—? Stay here for a bit, yeah?”

You softened, eyebrows scrunching as you took on the emotion on Steve’s face, the shyness there, the hope. You nodded, settling gently back onto Steve’s lap and you reached out, smoothing his hair away from his forehead, using the gesture as an excuse to let your fingers trail over his cheekbone. Steve turned, catching your knuckles with his lips, a fleeting kiss. 

Then he sucked in a breath and seemed to ready himself, his hands on your hips again, sneaking under the fabric of your sweater so he could rub circles into your skin with his thumbs. 

“So, it all started with this girl…”

[holylulusworld]

Indecent Proposal (2)

Summary: Your boyfriend wants to be part of their empire. You are the pawn he’s willing to sacrifice.

Rating: Mature

Pairing: Mobster!Stucky x fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, language, mentions of illegal activities/mafia business/murder, strong reader, mentions of breeding/surrogate, wish for children, shady deals, shitty boyfriend, reader doesn’t take shit from no one, tension, sexy mobsters

A/N: We get to know what happened before the party.

Indecent Proposal (1)

Indecent Proposal masterlist

You look at Steve, holding his gaze, “I’ll be yours if you get rid of him…”

Three weeks before the party, …

“Sirs, Mr. Barnes, Mr. Rogers,” Scott nervously tugs at the tie around his neck. He hates ties and suits. This can’t be helped. His goal is to get a better, more important, position within the organization. 

“Why are you wasting our time?” Bucky grumpily says. He slams a manila folder shut and sighs deeply. “We have better things to do than talking to one of our lower-rank minions…”

Steve stops his husband and partner before he can rip Scott apart.

“Please excuse my husband. He’s in a bad mood. The surrogates we interviewed so far didn’t reach our expectations.”

“Steve, he doesn’t need to know shit about our life,” Bucky huffs as his husband just spilled that they are trying to have a baby. 

“Surrogate, hmmm…I guess it’s hard to find the perfect woman. She can’t be too old or have a jealous man by her side. I never was jealous.” Scott babbles. “Shesh, I hope my girl doesn’t want children so soon.”

Bucky furrows his brows at Scott’s words. 

“I can tell, she’s a horny bitch every time she comes home after spending the day with her friend's kids. She begs me to breed her, and give her a baby,” Scott misses the look Steve and Bucky share.

“What?” Bucky questions. “Your girl wants a baby?” He tosses the manila folder into the bin. “Steve, a word…”

Scott waited patiently for the heads of the mob to call him in again. He steps back inside the room, eyes trained on the floor as Steve and Bucky watch him like hawks.

“Mr. Lang,” Steve clears his throat as his husband stares at the manila folder again. “We have something in mind you can help us with.”

“You do?” Scott excitedly says. “Yes. Of course! I’ll do anything!”

“It’s pretty easy,” Bucky sits on the plush sofa opposite the chair Scott occupies. “We are looking for a surrogate, and your girlfriend gets horny imagining having a baby.”

Scott dumbly stares at Bucky. He doesn’t understand a single word the mobster said. 

“What my husband tried to tell you is that we want your girl to become our surrogate,” the blonde casually says. “You will get a better position in our organization and more money than you could ever spend. In return, your girlfriend will become our surrogate.”

“Surrogate…” Scott licks his lips. “So…she will go to a doctor and stuff?”

Bucky smirks darkly. “Oh, no,” he shakes his head. “We are doing this the natural way. Your pretty girl will get to cum all over our cocks. We will breed her like the whore she’ll be for our cocks.”

“You want…oh,” shifting in his seat Scott considers his options. You are only together for a few months. He’s not in love but likes having someone to fuck around. You’re replaceable to him. If he plays his cards right, he’ll be a made man in no time. “I’ll talk to her, Sirs.”

Steve nods slowly while his husband grins wolfishly. “We need to check on her medical records first. Give us a few days. If she’s a match, we will give you a call.”

Three days later, …

“Mr. Rogers, Sir,” Scott tries to calm his racing heart. “She’s a match? Really? I mean, you want her to have your baby?”

Steve explains that you are compatible with them. He hides that you are perfect and that his husband can’t think of anything else than putting his hands on you since he got a glimpse of you some weeks ago.

“A party? Yes. That’s the perfect opportunity. I’ll talk to Y/N. She will love becoming your surrogate. And…uh…maybe we can talk about the new position too. You said something about money too.”

“You’ll get what you deserve,” Steve sarcastically says. He can’t believe Scott offers you on a silver plate to them. Not that he would complain. It’s easier this way. 

If you come to them on free terms, they can seduce you, and offer a better life to you instead of taking you with them by force.

Meanwhile, at Steve and Bucky’s mansion, …

“She’s perfect, Stevie,” Bucky swoons as he looks at the wall, plastered with pictures of you. “I think we found our girl.”

“Her medical records look good too. The doctor said she was a perfect match. In any way,” Steve looks at one of the pictures, licking his lips. Scott took it for them. You are only in your nightie and smile coyly at Scott. “We need to be quick before that idiot gets the chance to breed her.”

“We won’t give her back, right?” Bucky furrows his brows. “Right? She’s going to be our girl. I want to breed her more than once. I’ll always keep her full of our babies.”

Steve smirks at his husband. “Of course, we won’t give her back. She’s going to be ours, baby. No one will take her away from us. After she had our cocks for the first time, she will be addicted either way.” 

One week before the party, …

“A party? Scott,” you sigh deeply. “I told you that my friends invited me to a lady’s night. Why didn’t you tell me about the party earlier? I don’t have a dress for such a fancy event.”

“I got you a dress, shoes, and lingerie,” he points at a huge box on the bed. “You don’t need to take care of anything. Just look sexy and pretty as always.”

Your eyes widen at Scott’s thoughtfulness. Until today, you never thought he’d be more than a fling. Scott is cute, and you like his sense of humor. But he’s immature and selfish most of the time.

“Okay, then,” you softly say. “I’ll call my friends and cancel our plans.” You gasp when you open the box to see the most beautiful dress you have ever seen. “Scott, the dress looks so expensive.”

“Don’t sweat it, babe,” he grins. Scott hides that Steve and Bucky chose the dress and paid for it. “Only the best for my girl.”

Now, Steve and Bucky’s office, …

“Babe, you don’t mean that,” Scott splutters. He raises his hands in surrender and pleadingly looks at you. “Mr. Rogers, Mr. Barnes, we had a deal. I thought you always keep your word!”

“We do,” Bucky gets the gun out of his shoulder holster, “always. The problem is,” he unlocks his gun to press it to your now ex-boyfriend’s chest, “you lied to us.”

“The deal was that you talk to her and that she knows about the deal. You dared to put her in a situation like this. What did you expect? That we bend her over and take what we want?” Steve growls, making you whimper.

Their alpha behavior makes you hornier than it should. You press your legs together, fighting your arousal. “I’m not some whore you can offer to your buddies,” you mutter under your breath. “I can’t believe I canceled my lady’s night for you!”

“Babe, please…they are going to kill me. I’m sorry, okay,” he begs again. “We can talk things out. You only need to let them breed you once. For me…”

“Fuck you,” you throw your clutch at Scott. “I won’t ride dick only because you beg me to do so. I’ll fuck them to get off, not to help you make a career.”

“Doll, you need to calm down,” Steve purrs in your ear. He possessively slings one strong arm around your waistline to press your body to his. “We don’t want a quick fuck. You are going to be ours.”

“Forever,” Bucky adds. He looks over his shoulder to watch his husband grind into you. “Steve, slow down.”

“I only try to keep our sweet doll from hurting herself,” the blonde pecks your neck. “We are going to do all the dirty work for you from now on.”

“How do you want us to get rid of him?” Bucky pokes your ex-boyfriend’s chest with his gun, snickering as Scott wets himself. “Please tell me I can use one of my knives.”

You gently touched the arm around your body, patting it. “I want to get to know you better before we…” You lick your lips. “I’m not going to be only a hole you can fill.”

“Baby doll, you are going to be so much more,” Bucy turns around and places his gun on the desk. He steps toward you to cup your face and claim your lips in a soft kiss. “Steve and I will ruin you, sweetness.”

“Hands up, and do not move!” Scott took the chance and grabbed Bucky’s gun. He aims it toward you and Steve. His hands tremble, and he struggles to aim at Steve, not you.

Bucky smirks darkly. “I guess this means I can use my knives…”

Scott pulls the trigger, but nothing happens. He pulls it again, and again until Bucky slaps the gun out of his hands. “Did you honestly believe I'll use a gun in front of the future mother of our children?” He grunts. “You are dumber than I thought.”

“You idiot could’ve hit me!” You snarl in Scott’s direction. “What the fuck!” He stammers a meaningless apology. You know he only tried to save his ass. You ended up between a rock and a hard place because of him. “I want him gone until morning.”

“Consider it done,” Bucky purrs. “And after he’s gone, we will get to the fun part…”

Part 3

[monimccoythings]

Alastor x Daughter!Reader: Runaway I (Platonic)

So, what would it happen if Y/N after a lot of time at the hotel, decides to run off and explore the human world? Just like it happened in Helluva Boss I think. This is lighter than the others, but I really wanted to write this one. This could be interpreted as some AU of the Au or even set in the same series after a lot of time has passed.

I know the Grimoire doesn't really look like that and is in the ownership of someone else, but I was thinking that since Lucifer is the King of Hell, he should have at least a copy.

Reminder: Alastor is in hell for a reason.

Tw: Controlling behavior, possessive behavior, Alastor being a very controlling dad.

tags: @anonymousewrites, @nonetheartist, @littledolly2345, @sunnyx07, @ouroborostheunholy, @mo-0-o, @sydneyyyya @lbcreations-blog, @kiraisastay

Things have gotten much better for you since you first arrived. It had finally gotten inside your thick skull that this experience was for real. As crazed as Charlie's dream seemed to be, you couldn't help but believe in her and her goals, given her optimism and enthusiasm. You could say this place was safer than anywhere else you had been crashing for the last ninety years.

But the safety of a place didn't always come hand in hand with feeling safe. And there was only one person to blame for that: Alastor.

If he had been overprotective as a human, as a demon he was much worse. He didn't give a fuck about subtlety anymore. He knew the kind of people that were out there; in fact, he was one of them! Time had proved over and over again you wouldn't make it out there without his protection! He just wanted what was best for you and he also casually happened to know what it was! He was that smart, hahahaha!

As a minor, there was little you could do in Hell, you couldn't drink, you couldn't smoke, you couldn't have sex. So that just nuked three of the most popular hobbies there. Not that you cared much, but it just really left you with a feeling that you didn't belong among the guests and staff friend group due to your youth. The emotional age gap was quite something. And there were times where you felt like the tag-along-kid more than a part of the team.

It was really embarrassing to pull yourself up to one of Husk's stools, ask for the strongest he had, and get served some pineapple juice. He may get a few laughs out of your antics, but you just wanted to fit in.

Sometimes you played with Nifty, since she seemed to be the closest to you in age. Unfortunately, Nifty didn't seem to know any game that didn't involve cleaning or roach mutilation. (how was she even able to find a murderous point of view to Parchis???)

Charlie and Vaggie were too busy managing the hotel and attracting new customers, but you got a feeling they still wouldn't manage to fill that void you seemed to have.

Angel was like the big brother you wished you had had back when you were alive. He loved to gossip with you and Cherri; even when you didn't understand half of what they were saying, it felt nice having some kind of normal teenage stuff around. He also liked to nudge you towards some potential boyfriends, saying that you were in 'in the age' *wink* *wink*. Your dad did not appreciate that.

Alastor wouldn't consider himself a boyfriend blocking dad, Heaven's, no! Just a humble boyfriend murdering dad. So whatever idea of dating or just hanging out with other people your age was out of the question. As soon as you started talking to someone that was in the same age range as you, his shadowy form started to appear behind you and his eyes changed into dials, that was enough for anyone to start running in the opposite direction (he had scared away so many pontential guests it was unreal)

You couldn't even own a phone. Your dad insisted that 'his hotel, his rules'. Any technology that surpassed the 50s was out of the question. (they still didn't have a working phone). If he caught you with one in your hands, specially a VOXTECH phone, even if it was not yours, the battery suddenly started to heat to unbearable levels and you just had to drop it before it exploded in green flames.

Where was the fun loving dad you grew up with? The one that at least had the decency to be a bit more discreet? 'Dead at the prospect of raising a teenage girl!' He liked to say with a laugh.

You talked to Rosie about it, hoping she would talk some sense into him, and he had the nerve to act all innocent and oblivious! Like you were the one being unreasonable!

Somehow, this safe haven had started to become like a prison. You found yourself feeling suffocated and alienated from the others. When you were out there on your own you had lived in fear and trauma, which you hated with all what remained of your heart; but now that you were in a relatively safe place, you felt isolated and trapped. There was no common ground. You needed to breath, to live (or unlive), to enjoy life! You were not a little girl anymore! (҉Y҉e҉s҉ ҉y҉o҉u҉ ҉w҉e҉r҉e҉!҉)҉

So, one day, while helping Nifty clean and hiding from the Radio Demon That Sees It All, you casually stumbled into something very interesting at Lucifer's workshop. It looked like an ancient book, unlike those at the library which you had read and reread over and over again (One could read one too many times Mr. Waddles Goes to Church before it started to get old).

Something in that book drew you towards it, you knew you shouldn't look. It was probably full of ancient demonic knowledge, but maybe a teensy weensy peek wouldn't hurt, right?

Your face lighted up when you opened the book, (and not only because the light was coming from it). There were no words to describe what you found inside. You could see everything inside of it, it was like it was filled with everyone's dreams and hopes, you wondered how something as beautiful as that had ended up in Hell.

Without thinking, you touched the pages which felt warm to the touch. In response to your delicate caress, the pages started shining even brighter. You were so mesmerized by it that you didn't notice how the room was starting to fill with small orbs of light that started moving around you at impossible speeds, like a tornado.

Crafting materials, toy ducks and gizmos were sent around the room due to the force of the movement. But you didn't pay them any attention. There was something truly magical about the orbs' dance. It was enrapturing.

The door shot wide open, revealing Lucifer, Charlie and Vaggie with an horrified look in their faces. They were shouting something at you, but you could barely hear them, too lost in the orbs and their hypnotic dance. So distracted that you didn't feel the chilling presence that joined them until he spoke.

"Y/N, my dear? ." You felt a shiver run down your spine and your heart filled with the fear of a child who knows they have been caught doing something they shouldn't. You could perfectly hear his radio filtered voice, clear as a day, quiet as the calm before the storm. "Step away from that book, cherie. You could get hurt, and we don't want that, do we? ." He spoke with the kind of condescending tone one would use with a little kid.

A new sudden emotion emerged within you, something you had never felt before and never had any need for it. Anger. Who was he to stop you? Why did he always treat you like you were one of his puppets? Like you were another toy he could dress up and command as he pleased? Why couldn't he let you live?.

Feeling braver, probably due to the book's influence, you looked at his red eyes defiantly, once again touching the pages. Despite his permanent smile, you could tell he was getting angrier by the second.

"Y҉/҉N҉" His body was morphing, growing, eyes already changing to those red radio dials that gave you the chills. "I҉ ҉F҉O҉R҉B҉I҉D҉ ҉Y҉O҉U҉-҉"

"No!" You found yourself surprised at your own voice."I lost my life for you, I got sent here because I tried to protect you, I wasted my life because of you!" That last part came a bit more demonic sounding than intended. "Now. I WANT TO LIVE."

And with that, you were enveloped in a bright light and dissapeared.

For a couple of seconds, nobody dared to make a move. After what felt like hours, reality seemed to kick in and everyone sprung into action; Lucifer desperately searching through the pages of a suddenly very uncooperative book, just in case you had been sucked in, Vaggie was already establishing a perimeter around the hotel and search parties, and Charlie, poor sweet Charlie was franctically looking through every single room on that floor.

The only one who hadn't moved yet was Alastor. Already shrunk back to normal size, he seemed completely relaxed and chill in what could be considered an extremely catastrophic situation to any parent.

"Ah, must be those teenage hormones kicking in." His voice sounded as cheery and joyful as always. Almost like he didn't care. Lucifer shot him a venomous look, silently urging him to show a little care for his MISSING DAUGHTER. But Alastor had already retreated back into the shadows and returned to his radio tower.

If only they knew.

The truth was that Alastor cared. Way too much. He sunk his claws into the table while he fought against the deeply buried instinct in him to let himself loose and destroy everything in his path. The chains in his neck, glowed menacingly, a bitter reminder that he wasn't at full power.

He had lost you. Again.

He had you there, close enough to reach and you had vanished before he was able to do something. You had run away.

The mere thought made his hands shake with anger, antlers already growing twice their normal size. How could you? After everything he did for your sake, for your safety, y҉o҉u҉ ҉d҉i҉s҉o҉b҉e҉y҉ ҉h҉i҉m҉??? His smile looked more like a grimace and his eyes were pools of red hot rage. Oh, you were so grounded when he got you back.

Now you were out there, who knows where. All on your own. Defenseless, at the mercy of his many enemies without anyone, HIM, to protect you.

He sent his shadows into the city, he would leave no stone unturned no crackden untouched until he found you. He didn't care who he had to kill, maul or destroy. You would be coming back with him. Only HE could keep you safe, whetever you wanted it or not.

His desperation only grew when his shadows came back empty handed, the crazed look in his eyes combined with the slasher smile only made him look like the deranged psychopath he actually was.

You weren't in the Pride ring. He was even starting to doubt you were in Hell at all. What was the last thing you had said?

His non beating heart gave a painful twist when your parting words echoed in his mind. The bitterness and resentment in your voice hurt his tainted soul in ways no other person could have. His claws dug even deeper in the wood.

No.

All he wanted was to keep you safe back at the hotel, to ensure no one in this hellish landscape ever laid a finger in your delicate skin. He was just being a good father. You may not understand it, and probably never would. That's irrelevant.

He had found you again after nearly ninety years since that fatidic night when he lost it all, he was not going to allow anybody to take you away from him.

A theory started forming in his twisted mind. You had said that you wanted to live. Alastor was no fool, he knew what the Grimoire could do, in fact he had been dying to take a peek himself. Whatever you had wished, would have probably come true. His grin turned sour.

You had gone where he couldn't follow.

The mortal plane.

Who knew the kind of horrors you were facing up there? The kind of fools that would dare to disrespect the child of one of Hell's most powerful overlords?

He couldn't go there, at least not physically. If he could synchronize his radio frequency with the ones on Earth, he may be able to locate you before some fuckwad up there decided to have their way with you.

"We're on air"

[zablife]

Lee! Hope you're doing well 💋 so I so your prompt for the requests and if you're feeling inspired with this what about?

- ❛ I’ve killed for you. Who else can say that? ❜

with Tommy?

The Debt

Warning: Dark!Tommy 💀, mention of gun, blood, murder, trauma

You bit your hand to keep from screaming as the man in the long, black overcoat pushed you inside your small bedsit. The door slammed behind you as you stumbled toward the window, pushing the lace curtains aside with trembling fingertips. The remnants of blood were still there on the cobblestones beside the alley, though it was quickly being washed away in the driving rain.

Your memories of the violence carried out in your name would not be erased so easily. The bile rose in your throat as you thought of each shot striking its target, blood gushing over the pavement and splattering onto your shoes. You looked down to see the evidence of the stains that had ruined your new boots, an odd sensation washing over you as though you were staring at someone else's feet rather than your own.

"Come away from the window, love," a low voice rumbled across the room like thunder.

Your body shuddered involuntarily at the noise, a hand gripping the window ledge to keep upright. Feet uncooperative as your mind, you attempted to reply, but found yourself unable to dislodge the words from your brain. You shook your head fiercely, but the cotton headed feeling wouldn't budge.

The man scoffed at your disobedience, removing his coat to wrap around your shoulders protectively. He clamped a large hand over your shoulder, guiding you toward the little table in the corner. As he handed over a flask, he instructed, "Sit down and have some of this. It'll steady your nerves."

Suddenly you heard yourself stutter, "I...d-d-don't drink."

"Alright, tea then," he conceded. "Where do you keep it?" He leaned over you, eyebrow raised in question until your finger pointed in the direction of a far cupboard.

As he turned away, his gun came into view and your heart began to hammer at your ribcage until you thought you might faint. Pressing your fingers to your temples, you closed your eyes and attempted deep breaths. Eventually you pushed them out in labored waves, though your body was quickly wracked by sobs.

"Hey, hey...there's no need for tears," you heard the deep voice begin to soothe as you felt a warm cup being pressed into your palms.

Looking up through watery eyes, you sniffed, "Who are you? What do you want?"

Taking a seat opposite you, the man's crystalline blue eyes locked onto yours intently as he introduced himself as Tommy Shelby. "You don't know who I am?"

"No," you admitted. "I've only just arrived this week."

Tommy rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "That's what I thought. You'd never have taken that short cut if you'd known the sorts of bastards lurking."

A draft blowing through the crack in the windowsill crept across the back of your neck at that moment, triggering a phantom feeling of icy fingers upon your throat and you startled losing your grip on the china.

Tommy caught the cup before it landed on the floor, hissing as the hot liquid scalded his hands.

"I'm sorry, I felt his hands..." you mumbled, fingers tracing the delicate skin where the man from the alley had grabbed you.

"You've had a shock," Tommy stated, cleaning himself off with a rag. "But you needn't worry any longer. You're under my protection now." He stood with a determined nod, gathering his cap and placing it on his head.

For the first time that evening your shoulders relaxed and you breathed a sigh of relief. With a bit of effort, you banished the terrifying images of what you'd seen and tried to find good in the intimidating man before you. You even began convincing yourself it was fate that brought him to look after you in your new city.

However, as you stood to remove Mr. Shelby's coat, he casually announced, “You can bring it tomorrow when you see me about repaying your debt.” Then he proffered a business card.

You stared up at his chiseled face, partially covered in shadow. Unable to tell if he were serious. "I don't understand,” you admitted with a puzzled look.

Clicking his tongue disapprovingly, he pulled on a pair of black leather gloves. “So forgetful all of a sudden, aren't we," he scolded.

Your throat went dry, constricting painfully when you tried to swallow. "What do you mean?"

The leather cracked menacingly as he reached out to caress the apple of your cheek with the back of his hand. "I've killed for you. Who else can say that?" he reminded you in a voice far too flat and calm to offer affection.

Your eyes went wide as you searched his darkening pupils, panic shooting down your spine as you thought of what awaited you at the address printed on the card. The bit of paper shook violently in your hand as his thumb grazed your lips, leaving a powerful promise in his wake. "I've done something for you, now it's your turn."

When you bristled beneath his touch, he leaned toward your ear, a hiss escaping on his whisky scented breath. "I could return you to that alley if you like, but I think you'll find this arrangement far better." He turned without giving you a chance to protest. There was no need for once you owed a debt to Tommy Shelby, he owned you for life.

---------------

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[imababblekat]

Bayverse TmnT X Thankful Reader; HC’s

Anon Request, "Can I ask for Bayverse Turtles reacting to GN reader who thanks them for saving them instead of being scared of them?"

~xXx~

Michelangelo:

 Dudes pretty stoked when it hits him that you’re not running away screaming your head off after he’s saved you from some drunks

He’s really excited and almost loses himself to it, grabbing your hands and cheerfully introducing himself

Probs throws out some kind of pun or pick up line about how this must mean something, and for a moment almost really feels that when you giggle at his shenanigans

A human who thanked him with no shred of fear and thinks he’s funny?! Someone pinch him because there’s no way this isn't a dream

Would slip you his number before dashing off to the calls of his brothers, winking back as he waved goodbye, already picturing you as a new friend

Donatello:

Freaked out at first when he sees you still hanging around after he fought off a thug who tried to rob you, but that shock is quickly replaced with curiosity as you breathlessly thank him

He wonders if this is some other form of distress on your part and does a quick check up to make sure you didn’t hit your head or something

Is even more surprised when it turns out you’re perfectly fine, and you don’t shy away from his touch, a large hand still gently holding you by the shoulder

Donnie’s quick to pull away when he realizes, fumbling with his words for a moment and the soft smile you offer is not helping the warmth dusting his cheeks

The shout from his brothers for him is what saves him from further embarrassment, but as he turns to leave and sees you still standing, watching him go, he can’t help the growing intrigue he now has for you

Raphael:

You’re not running in terror, screaming bloody murder, and Raph isn’t sure how to feel

He just stands and stares absolutely bewildered as you offer him a kind thank you after saving you from random aggressors

He’s quick to catch your hand as it lifts towards his face, more shock coursing through him when he sees the rag in your grasp to clean at a cut on his face

Your fearlessness towards him is impressive, but he can’t help the internal panic

Yes there’s a joyful elation Raph feels, but this is all new territory to him

Sure, he has human friends like April, but even she freaked when she first met him

Not you though, and as he runs off to catch up with his brothers, he finds himself unable to stop thinking of this memorable encounter

Leonardo:

Leo is stunned by your kind thank you versus the usual display of fear he receives, there’s a reason he tried to be super stealthy after all

He’ll actually ask if you’re not scared of him, sounding casual about it but feeling the exact opposite

You’re denying response gives him a sense of relief and curiosity, but also apprehension

Are you trying to trick him? Are you secretly part of the Foot Clan?

He can’t help his skepticism towards your kindness, as the leader he’s sort of built this wall against newer people to protect his family

He’ll eye you for a moment, asking if you’re okay to walk home by yourself, and after he’s sure you are truly fine, he’ll be quick to make his leave

It’s sudden and abrupt and while a small part of him feels kind of rude about suddenly dipping, he’s too busy fighting an inner battle about how his whole existence is to stay hidden, and this new desire to be sought by you

Definitely doesn’t tell his brothers about this meeting, last thing Leo needs is for them to encourage the warm hope you’ve instilled within him

~xXx~

[bisexual-horror-fan]

Hear me out!

Sam’s killer side is more dormant and her bloodlust is out of control and she’s feeling the overwhelming need to kill someone. By this point, she’d stopped trying to fight it. Reader is a friend/girlfriend who knows enough about Sam and her urges to offer her a substitute; letting her fuck you stupid. As kinky as you can think of with sprinkles of blood play, knife play, heavy degradation and praise. Sam 100% has a strap, she just does and loooooves to make her choke on it. You didn’t really believe Sam would hurt anyone and you’d never seen her kill anybody first hand before but by the time she was finished with you, you knew that she was far more than capable and the thought of that was nothing short of a turn on.

Oh, Anon. You were the first person to submit for the Ghostface Sam fic prompts, and you nailed it in one. So here we are! My first Sam Carpenter fic! And the first fic of the new year! Let's get into it, I hope this is dirty enough for you!

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Rating. Explicit. Length. 3.8K. Ghostface! Sam Carpenter X FEM! AFAB! Reader. She/Her Pronouns. Warnings: Blood. Mentions Of Murder. Begging. Oral Sex. Cunnilingus. Face Sitting. Cum Eating. Strap On Sex. Spanking. Knife Play. Blood Play. Knife Used As A Makeshift Sex Toy. Multiple Orgasms. Squirting. Praise. Degradation. Dirty Talk. Rough Sex. Sam Is Mean. You Love It. Edging. Mild Orgasm Denial. Asking For Permission.

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"Make It Hurt."

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The itch is becoming completely unbearable. How is she meant to cope with this? Nothing is able to keep her mind off the intense want to maim and destroy. 

She should be happy. Her last spree went so well, she got away scott-fucking-free, everyone views her as the helpless survivor of an attack when in reality she did it and framed the real victims. It’s been months, far too long, and she is feeling the urges bubbling up inside of her once again. She can’t go around killing without some sort of plan, it’s just asking to get caught and if she ends up in jail then she’ll never get to again. A complete nightmare, and one she wants to do everything possible to prevent. 

It is to the point she is having trouble sleeping. Other hobbies are dull and lifeless, she has low motivation, food is bland, her mind is just consumed with thoughts of running through warm bodies with cold steel, of slicing, cutting, draining every single last drop of blood from a person. She needs to plan appropriately so she can hopefully satisfy her bloodlust, but she’s waited too long, the planning stage isn’t working as it normally is, it’s not fun, it’s frustrating her even further. She doesn’t want to plot, she just wants satisfaction now, she wants to feel the hot spray of blood hitting her face, soaking into her clothes, she isn’t able to pull the creative resources she needs from herself to do what the job would require, the well is dry. 

You wake up to find her side of the bed empty and long gone cold, rolling over your check your phone, it’s past 3 AM. You groan and sit up, why isn’t she in bed? Furthermore, you’d insisted she get some sleep with you tonight, she’d been up late a lot this week, and you could see how restless and antsy she was getting, irritable and unable to keep her mood even. You get out of bed, pausing to get your robe off the hook on the back of the door, you pull it on and tie up the belt at your waist as you leave to go find her. 

Sam is unable to sleep, she’s in the living room in the dark, a favoured gore fest of a horror movie on the TV and her favourite knife in her hand. She has her feet up, one hand is playing with a lock of her hair curling it around her finger, winding and unwinding it over and over, the opposite hand occupied with flipping the knife, a casual but impressive trick, the flick of her wrist practised, natural, complete muscle memory. She is still dressed in what she wore to bed, braless in the well fitting and tight white t-shirt, cotton dove grey shorts that creep high up her thighs. You lean against the wall and watch her for a moment. 

You know what this is, you can see it in her body language, the tension is radiating off of her. She is unfulfilled, she is craving to hurt, she wants to kill, enact things she is watching on the screen, the desire to spill blood is overtaking her. She is smart, calculating, she knows that now is not the right time, but that doesn’t change the frustration she feels. You wish she could do what she really wanted to, but you know just as well as her it’s a bad fucking idea. 

You knock quietly on the wall, and it makes her react immediately, sitting up, even more tense, she stops flipping the knife, gripping the handle, her head turns and upon seeing you she relaxes slightly. She slumps back into her original position, still holding the knife, she says quietly, “Hey.”

You walk over, returning her greeting, “Hey yourself.” Taking the seat next to her, you look over to her, a hand rests on her thigh, and you ask, “You okay?” 

“Can’t sleep.” She sighs, and you laugh lightly, your hand squeezes her thigh, “Yeah, I can see that.” 

“Sorry, I know you hate waking up alone I just, I couldn’t keep lying in bed awake-” Her dark brown eyes meet your gaze, and you lean closer, shushing her, “Stop that, you’ve got a lot on your mind right now clearly, stop worrying so much about me.” 

You are much more concerned about her than yourself, you adjust, one knee on the couch, you lean over further, one hand still firmly on her thigh and the other on the backrest of the couch. “I know what’s up with you-” 

A dip of your head, your lips brush hers, a small peck before you pull back, continuing your thought, “-all pent-up, like you are locked in a cage, unable to do what you really want.” 

She leans up, steals a kiss, and you indulge her momentarily before breaking it again, “We both know you can’t, not till you relieve some of this stress, so…”

Your hand leaves her thigh, fingers curl around her wrist and pulling up her hand, you have her slip her fingers through the opening of your robe over your chest, let her get a handful of you, arching closer into her touch you offer yourself up, “Take it all out on me.” 

Her breath hitches, she doesn’t pull away, in fact her touch gets bolder, greedier, feeling you up, your lips barely an inch apart as she responds, “Baby, I can’t do that, I’ll hurt you-”

“I want you to hurt me. You need to draw blood to feel better? Why not mine?” Your hand is off her wrist, instead it latches onto her hand, the one holding the knife. Your head moves, gives some more breathing room, you hold the blade to your own thigh, exposed between the folds of your robe, the one you are kneeling on. You press, drag the unyielding silver over flesh, and you gasp from the jolt of pain, both of you watch as the skin splits and crimson begins to drip. Her resolve is splintering, you whimper out, “Please Sam?”

Those two words, that plea, begging, unlocks something in her. Makes some part of her snap, the last vestiges of self-control are abandoned in short order. 

She practically drags you back to the bedroom. 

You think at first she is going to have you on the bed, toss you onto the comforter and plush sheets, no that is apparently too good for you when she is in the mood, and you know that because she tells you as much. She pushes you down onto the dark hardwood floor, your eyes are questioning, which leads her to tell you, “C’mon sweetheart, you told me you wanted it to hurt, and I’m going to give you just what you asked for.” 

She’s standing over you, passing the knife from hand to hand, sadistic smile playing on her lips and as she stares down at you, her look tattles on her thoughts, she's considering what to do with you, playing around mentally with just what she wants to do to you first. You watch as she starts to take her shorts off, knife still in one hand, she drops the fabric onto the floor and then next she is removing that all lace black panties she had on underneath, and you are already salivating at the view of her. 

Your eyes are locked between her legs, you love every single part of her, but you’d be a filthy fucking liar if you couldn’t be honest about how much you adored her bare like this. You roam, from the well maintained patch of black hair to her prominent clitoral hood and the plump lips you could suck and toy with for hours. 

You get your wish, she knows you well and what you are craving. She moves, standing over you and then lowers herself down, her knees on either side of your head as she straddles your face. Hands move on instinct, you reach up and grip her hips, moaning against her as soon as the flavour of her hits your tongue. Swiping up through her folds, getting a better taste before passing over her clit, you hum indulgently and repeat the motion. Over and over, taking care to spend more time focusing on that most sensitive part of her. She is moving her hips, grinding herself down on your lips and tongue, with a deep moan, “Fuck, you are the best little cunt eater around.” 

You preen under her praise, it makes you work harder to please her, sucking deeply, eyes falling closed with another hum that makes her body buck on top of you. She is loving this, riding your pretty face, and you love it too, the taste of her, getting her wetter and wetter, listening to her moans and feeling her thighs clenching around your head. It is bliss, it is your purpose, to be used for her pleasure and enjoyment, nothing is better. 

She reaches back and her fingers press on the cut on your thigh, the blood had slowed significantly and the rush of pain makes you moan louder against her. “What a pain slut you are. I bet if it touched you that you’d be fucking soaked.” 

You know that to be true, your thighs rub together, and you feel the wetness staining them, you want some attention for yourself, but you want to keep pleasing her much, much more. You forget your own leaking cunt and choose to continue focusing on her instead. 

She rolls her body again, her wetness is all over your face, it had started to run down your chin, you feel it on your neck. Your fingers squeeze her hips, and you continue to eat her out, you knew you were affecting her, her dirty talk is becoming more fractured, moaning much more. “God yeah-ugh-there you go, jus-just like that, ohhh, suck that fucking clit like you mean it.” 

Her body starts to react in that way that you know all too well, tensing, breath coming in shorter gasps. She hadn’t even been riding your face for that long, but you were exceptionally skilled at this, had more than enough practice and knew how to get her off quickly, adept at giving her powerful orgasms with nothing more than your mouth. Knowing much better than to stop now, you keep going, unrelenting, feverish, you continue your current action, having pulled her clit into your mouth, tongue flicking over it while it is encased in the wet heat of you and in less than a minute more you are rewarded with her cumming on your face. You never grew tired of this, of her shuddering on top of you through her release, the minute movements as she wrung out every bit of sensation she could, the near guttural moan of your name that would pass through her lips. 

It made you leak more, clench around nothing, long to feel the same.

Her body becomes still, but her breathing is still erratic, she raises up on her knees a little to give you some breathing room. You are staring up at her, you watch with rapt interest as she removes her shirt and tosses it, leaving her totally naked still on top of you. She is looking back down at you, a half smile playing on her features, one that is dangerous. She sets the knife down on the floor, and you know better than to even think about going for it. After a moment more to recover, she is getting up, ordering you firmly to, “Stay.”

You do as you are told. Laying there on the floor as you watch her move, she steps over you and out of your line of sight, you don’t even dare to turn your head to follow where she goes. You hear the opening of some drawers, you know what she is after. You hear her speak from somewhere behind you, “Strip.” 

Hands scramble, rushing to comply, you take your robe off and toss it into the far corner of the room, leaving you totally bare. Sam insists you sleep naked, much prefers having you open and exposed, something you do not mind at all and do for her willingly. The floor feels hard and cool against your back, you have no real time to rest, you hear her footsteps coming close again and then there are fingers in your hair, they twine and twist, she pulls, tugging hard, “On your knees' whore, now”

You suck in a harsh inhale through your teeth, the sharp stab of pain radiating down the base of your skull, and you do as asked, getting up onto your knees, her firm hand guiding you. She’s back in your field of vision now, and she’s gotten her favourite toy to use with you, her strapless strap on. 

It is dark purple and looks striking, totally stunning against her skin, it’s long and thick as it sits heavy between her legs, jutting outwards, it’s ribbed and whenever she has you it fills you up beautifully, hits all the best spots. In short, it makes you into a totally blissed out well fucked mess whenever she fucks you with it. With no straps, the way it is secured is with a curved and rather bulbous end that she inserts into herself, gives her something to clench on and when she gets into a good rhythm with fucking you it presses over and over into her g-spot. Further still, the toy contours and curves with her body, a textured pad right behind the shaft that pushes against her clit, giving her a completely perfect way to stimulate herself with ease while she is fucking you, every thrust in and pull out, hitting her both externally and internally. 

You knew this next part very well. You needed to prep her strap for you to take it, you were soaked, totally dripping, but with how rough she was every bit helped. She pulls you near, and you move willingly, mouth opens, and with her other hand on the base of the toy she guides it between your lips. Cool silicone passes over your tongue as you close around it, you bob your head down, taking about half of the toy before pulling back, keeping just the tip between your lips. You loved when she made you blow her, she keeps pulling on your hair, guiding you, making you slide up and down her shaft, coating it in spit as you suck it. “You are so perfect, you know that? Just as cock hungry, right?”

You nod, eyes looking up at her as you work, focusing on blowing her and putting on a good show, but more than that too, when she makes you take it deeper? A hand on the back of your head, forcing you to take it as deep as you could, you choke and gag, when it hits the back of your throat she moans, you know this part feels the best. Whenever the tip of that dildo hits on something more solid, it provides a delectable jolt of pleasure for her. Both her hands are in your hair too, tugging and pulling, leading you to suck, drool is running down, drops landing on your own chest as she picks up the pace, moving her hips, fucking your face. 

You gag so hard you start to tear up, “Pretty, pretty girl, you look best with tears all over that face.”  You loved how she spoke to you, the mix she strikes of praise and degradation, of warmth and filth, it makes your blood sing. 

When you gag again, a bit too hard, that kind of gag that makes your pace falter and the tears finally start to fall she clucks her tongue disapprovingly, “Are you even trying?”

You nod and Sam urges, “Show me then. Prove me wrong.” There is a light slap to your cheek that makes you inhale sharply though your nose and work harder. You want to please her, you do the tricks you know, you try to get a handle on your breathing, you squeeze your thumbs in your fists to help tame your gag reflex, and you push yourself. When she is moaning in that particular pitch, you know you are doing well. 

You are doing so well in fact that she pulls the spit soaked shaft from your mouth, and she pushes you down, “Face down ass up.”

Your face is put down right there, into the mess that has collected, drips of spit and her arousal staining the wood, and your cheek is put into it, and you don’t fight it. She gets behind you, a rough slap to your ass that makes you groan, she loves how it sounds so she lays down a few more as she gets on her own knees. 

“You are leaking everywhere oh my God-” She laughs, but there is no malice in it, she spanks you again, the pain is slight but strong, burning, you take it just as she wants you to and then all of a sudden hurt gives way to ecstasy. She slid inside of you with no issue, complete ease, because just as she said you are drenched. How could you not be, after all the build up and what she said to you? How she treated you. Her hips are flush with your ass, she is completely inside of you, and she moans, grinding herself against you, and you moan too, after inhaling you finally push out that sound showing how good it felt. 

She pulls out halfway before slamming back into you to the hilt, the sensation rockets up your spine, the force of her thrust makes your body move, your cheek drags through the mess it is resting in and you moan. “Awe, you like that?”

You nod weakly, inhaling shakily, and the end breaks off into another choked off sob, “Course you do. You are so nasty, getting fucked face down in a puddle of drool.” She starts an even and steady pace, her hips slamming into yours, the sound of skin on skin filling the space of your shared bedroom. 

“Depraved, disgusting-” She changes the angle, brushes that place inside you that makes your nails bite into the wood below you and cry out, “Right there!”

Another hit to your ass so hard that you yelp, she degrades you further, “I know where it is. You are stupidly easy to please, then again, all bitches like you are.” 

“Sam, oh my God-” You gasp, and she laughs, “Sam, oh my Godddd-” she taunts, parroting back what you said, letting you really hear how needy and pathetic you are. 

“Aren’t you even a little embarrassed?” She asks, and you moan out, “Noo-ooohhhh-” 

“Course you aren’t, you’ve got entirely no shame.” She muses, her breathing is picking up as she is slamming into you, knowing she has found a particularly good rhythm that is working for her just as well. You are so consumed with everything she is doing to you that you don’t hear the sound of metal scraping, you don’t register her picking up the knife. 

You feel it. 

She cuts, desperate to harm and see more blood. The cuts are quick, light, surface level and each one is punctuated with another brutal thrust into you. One over your hip, outer thigh, the curve of your breast, you sob from each cut, hiccuping and wet and moan, deep and long from each hit of the head of her false cock on that swollen spot inside of you. The blood pours, it joins the mess on the floor, she presses her fingers to the wounds, causes more pain, you clench around her, she holds pace, but it gets messier, sloppier, she’s going to cum and you are so fucking close. 

You are a pain slut, but the bright bursts of hurt are keeping you on the opposite side of the edge, she can tell, you are struggling, crying, desperate, “Awe, you havin’ trouble cumming baby?”

“Ye-yes!” You whine, she tsk’s, “Need some help?”

“Puh-lease?!” You don’t give a shit how pathetic you sound any longer, all you know is the intense and all consuming need to cum already. You are dripping down your thighs, totally frustrated and keyed up, you feel like if you don’t cum soon you might die, it’s hard to breathe, as if you are drowning, choking on sensation itself. 

“Okay, I’ll help you, sweet thing.” You feel her move, her tits press into your back, her arms loop around you, one around your middle, over your waist and the other hand, the one still holding the knife is between your legs. The smooth and rounded end of the knife is dragged over the fresh cut on your thigh, it hurts, you yelp again, she catches the mess of blood, and then it is pressed to you. She used the blood for lube, the end of the knife was being pressed to your straining clit, she moves it in tight circles in time with her thrusts and having both spots abused inside and out has you falling apart in less than ten more thrusts. 

You don’t forget yourself, still, before you do tip over, you are good, you ask, “Sa-Sam, close, please? Fuck, fuck, please?!” It spills out in a rushed babble, breathless, she is panting too, and you can tell by the tone of voice in her reply she is near her end too, “Fuck yeah, good girl do it, you’ve earned it-”

That’s more than you need for it to happen. You cum so hard, you make a mess, moaning incoherently and loud enough you are positive you will get a noise complaint, thighs feeling like they will give out, shaking, sweaty, bloody, cunt spasming around her shaft still driving in and out of you as you squirt onto the floor. 

She loves when she makes you squirt, she is fucking you through your complete high, the mess is on her too, running down her toy and over her own slit, down her thighs, and it is enough to make her reach her end too. Your name stains her tongue as she peaks and holds deep, she grinds through the aftershocks of your orgasm, your body feels heavy and weak, the only thing holding her up is you. She doesn’t relent, over stimulation starts to set in, and you beg, “Stop, fuck-”

She drops the knife onto the floor, and you breathe a sigh of relief. Her hips have completely stopped, she is just sitting inside of you. Both of you are catching your breath, you ask, “Feeling better?”

“It’s a start.” She hums, and you laugh lightly, eyes falling closed, she slowly pulls out, and you wince slightly, feeling fucked out and sore in the best way, “Don’t get too comfortable, you have to clean me up still.” 

You knew she meant not only the end that was just inside you, but the one that was still resting snugly inside of her. 

[rinrinx2]

hiii!! Could you do something about Ran (tenjiku) with a reader (woman) based on Valentine's Day??? <3

Sorry if it's misspelled, English is not my first language :(

Valentine’s Day Fiasco

Ran x reader

Summary: your boyfriend who has lost his spontaneous charm takes you on a spontaneous evening.

Warnings: Smut, inappropriate language, mentions of d€at and murder.

(Accidentally wrote about Bonten Ran)

Ran was romantic but not the type to dance in the rain, spontaneous kind. No, he was the plan a dinner and get you flowers type. He always said if the two of you had met as teenagers then perhaps he’d be more spontaneous but now as an aged man the only thing he would do spontaneously was spend money.

And that’s what led you to where you were tonight, on Valentine’s Day. Sitting in one of the most elite restaurants in Tokyo, picking away at some overpriced Sashimi.

“You like it?” Ran asked as he peered over his wine glass just as he was about to take a sip.

“Yes of course baby” your replied trying to enjoy your evening.

It wasn’t that you were ungrateful for his extravagant nights out, but you longed for the youthful Ran that would make an evening out of nothing. The young Ran Haitani who had two braids and a dream.

You were so lost in your thoughts that you hadn’t even noticed the shift in Ran’s aura, from calm and relaxed to on edge. As if he was waiting for something to happen.

“Shit” Ran whispered loud enough to snap you out of your thoughts.

You looked over at Ran, eyes wide with wonderment as you watched as he Ran his hand through his hair trying to sooth out the random strands that fell to his face in frustration.

Ran took a deep breath before he took a quick sip of his champagne.

“Grab your bag and walk to the exit, I’ll call the waiter and just wait for me outside” Ran said casually as if not to alert others.

You looked at Ran with confusion painted on your face. Taken aback by his words and more so by his demand.

“I didn’t finish my supper yet Ran and we ordered dessert, can’t we wait” you nagged hoping that he’d at least let you finish your valentines meal.

“Just listen to me and do what I say” Ran said now with a more serious tone as his eyes starred dead into yours.

You knew that look was not asking for you to test him, but rather for you to comply or the worst would happen.

So, without much of a fight your grabbed your purse and got up from the table as you made your way to the exit.

As you made your way through the restaurant you turned your head back to see Ran standing by the your waiter as he pulled out his wallet rushing to pay. Your journey out of this exclusive restaurant took longer than it felt and you constantly felt the eyes of a man on you which only prompted you to walk faster out.

Standing in the cool evening air waiting for Ran outside of a restaurant was not what you’d expected for a valentines evening.

And just as you were about to continue your internal complaining, you saw Ran walking out of the restaurant. His shoulders slumped forward almost trying to hide himself within with his brows furrowed. The opposite of how he usually was, his confident aura replaced with one of a guard dog ready to attack at any sound.

“Come on, we have to get going” Ran said grabbing your hand as you he dragged you along.

You tugged on his grip trying to loosen it unsure of what was happening and his little explanation was not helping your mood either as you grew more rebellious. Now pulling yourself out of his grip as you looked at him with confusion and anger.

“What is going on?” You questioned with concern.

“(Y/N) come now, I don’t have time for this”

“Just tell me what’s going on, I hate being dragged around like a rag doll” you said now with a raised tone.

“Just come now. Don’t make me say it again-”

“I fucking knew I saw that Haitani scum” a man said as the restaurant door swung open not to far from where the two of you stood.

A tall lanky man with a face tattoo of a snake traveling along the side of his face.

“Shit” Ran muttered under his breath as he grabbed your hand again, but this time you held no resistance sensing the worry and panic that emanated from Ran a feeling that you barely ever saw Ran feel.

The two of you began to run through the streets of Tokyo, scraping through people and pushing them over as you tried your best to get as far as your feet would allow you. Turning around ever so often seeing how close the lanky man with four of his henchmen trailing use.

“I’m gonna get you Haitani” the lanky man screamed as he began to pull out a gun from his blazer pocket.

“Quick, turn into this alley at the next turn” Ran said as he started sprinting to gain more distance praying that he would lose the men behind you or at least get you out of harms way.

When the turn approached the two of you ran into the alley quickly running through the maze of hidden backroads hoping that the two of you would lose the men chasing after you.

When Ran believed that the two of you were in the clearing he began to slow his pace as he moved the two of you behind a wall to catch your breath before use ventured on.

“What the fuck was that about” you said gasping for air, as you shot daggers at Ran.

“I may have killed someone close to him” Ran said as he looked over at you with that cheeky grin now plastering his face.

“How fucking close was that person to him, Ran!” You said as you were about to wipe the smile off of his face.

“Calm down it was only his dog… well Urhm kinda like not the dog but the owner of the dog who was his brother”

“What!”

“You killed his brother” you said now seething.

“Mikey sent me to do it and so I did” Ran replied as he now caught his breath fully.

“And if Mikey told you to jump off a cliff you’d do it too”

“I mean for the right amount I would”

“You’re an asshole you know that, you ruined Valentine’s Day” you said as you looked at him.

Ran watched as you stared at him with that burning passion of hate, taking in your figure, all disheveled from running, the sweat causing your hair to stick to your neck and the way your hair looked all wind swept from the running and the way your black dress was now even shorter and somehow looked tighter from having ran as fast as you had.

The look you dawned now made something in Ran stir, something carnal that he hadn’t felt in awhile and the way you spoke to him only drove him more wild.

“Are you evening fucking listening to me”you said as you placed your hands on your hips.

“Oh I’m listening all right” Ran said as he walked over to you now, as he pinned you to the wall behind you, knocking the air out of your lungs.

You looked at Ran with eyes blown wide, you looked into his pupils, only seeing the black of them starring back at you and watching as those sharp canines showed themselves.

Somehow the spontaneous teen Ran had made an appearance and you stood there shell shocked until you felt his hands begin to wonder your body.

“I fucking missed this” Ran whispered against your neck and he let his hands travel up your sides while his tongue lapped at your neck.

“Ran” you whimpered out almost trying to get him to stop.

“Shut up” he commanded as his hands now began to travel in between your legs.

The cool evening air mixing with his hot tongue was causing ripples of pleasure to shoot through you.

You felt as Ran’s finger tips began to prod at your puffy cunt, as he now slid his fingers up and down your clit causing soft moans to slip past your lips.

Ran’s other hand pulled down the straps of your dress pulling down the ones of your bra with them to reveal you plump breast as his mouth to left your neck to travel to your breast.

Taking a nipple in his mouth as his sucked on it as his fingers now pushed past your panties to know play with the leaking hole of your pussy.

“Ran” you cried out hoping he’d give you more as you felt his fingers slip in and out of you getting faster and faster. Feeling the way he curled them as he fucked you with them.

Your nipples hard from him sucking on them and you clit swollen from his fucking his fingers into you as you road them. Feeling as you got closer, with your lips dry and open gasping for air as you felt your high approach but just as you reached it Ran pulled his fingers out pulling away your orgasm.

Leaving you panting wanting more.

You couldn’t take it anymore, and like a needy bitch in heat you pulled at his trousers freeing his cock.

You looked at the leaking tip as you now turned around presenting your leaky cunt to him to use.

The sight of you being needy was driving Ran nuts and he couldn’t take it anymore from the sight of you presenting yourself like prey ready to be devoured, so he took the opportunity with all and he began to fuck you from behind as you clung to the wall for dear life.

Ran’s cock twitched as your cunt sucked him in, feeling the curve of his cock knock at your walls drove you close to your high once again. And Ran to was close from all the adrenaline rushing through his veins.

“Fucking take it you slut”

“Fucking take my cock” Ran said through gritted teeth as he fucked you faster and faster as you cried out in pleasure.

“You want my cum?” Ran asked as he pulled your hair.

“Yes I want it please!” You pleaded out.

“Then fucking beg for it”

“Please give me your cum. Please I need it. I’ll be a good girl. Please my pussy needs to be filled up” you begged over and over, until finally you felt that hot spurts of liquid shoot into you as you crashed around Ran’s cock creaming on it milking the rest of his cum out of his cock.

Ran pulled out as he once again tried to catch his breath, but just as you began to gasp for air the tall lanky man appeared again and Ran once again grabbed your hand not wasting a moment to start his sprinting.

“Can’t you do something?” You asked as you ran feeling as sweat once again started to run down your neck and his cum down your thighs.

“Like what?” Ran questioned.

“Don’t you have a gun”

“Oh yeah” Ran said as he now pulled out a gun from his suit jacket and quickly turned around just in time before the lanky man could react as he shot him right in the chest.

Ran now walked over to the shot man and his henchmen, giving the henchmen a look he gave his victims when he wanted information from them. The look that scared even the most brave.

“You wanna be next” he asked them, as the men looked frightened.

“This is the part where you run away” Ran said as he began to reload his gun watching as the men ran away.

You walked over to Ran who now put his gun away.

You looked down to the man that lie on the ground bleeding out.

“What’s going to happen to him?” You questioned.

“His gonna see his brother again” Ran said with a snicker as he grabbed your hand as the two of you made your way back to the main roads of Tokyo.

“So did you have a great Valentine’s Day?”

“It was something” you replied.

“I got a massive bouquet but I left it in the car” Ran said as the two of you walked off into the night.

“Shit! I forget we could’ve just driven off instead of done this goose chase thing”

“You think snake rat face guy will let us redo this chase again but this time I use the car” Ran said.

“I doubt he will honey” you said as you patted his arm.

“Gosh darn it”

.

.

.

Hope you liked it

All rights reserved to @rinrinx2

[milla984]

It's the Great Pumpkin, Spencer Reid

Summary: Spencer and Reader get to spend some quality time together on Halloween

Pairing: virgin!Spencer Reid x fem!reader, virgin!Spencer Reid x plus size Reader

Category: smut (NSFW, 18+, MDNI)

TW/CW: heavy kissing, handjob, fingering, brief mention of an anxiety attack, body image insecurities (both parts)

Word Count: 5.4k

This work is part of the series Spencer Reid, my beloved

“I am officially traumatized,” Penelope blurted out when the end credits rolled on the screen, “remind me to never watch another Halloween movie with you, guys!!”

You could almost hear Spencer squeak in disbelief. “What?! This is a classic!”

She stood up to adjust her skirt, the one with jack-o’-lanterns and spiderwebs arranged in a casual pattern all over the dark fabric, and the bats standing on top of her fuzzy headband wiggled in different directions. 

“Uh–uh, La Dolce Vita is a classic. This is what goes on in the twisted mind of someone who desperately needed a hug and a large cup of hot cocoa with a ton of whipped cream and sprinkles as a child.”

You smiled as you finished loading the dishwasher, amused by the discussion unfolding in your living room; in your heart you were the greatest admirer of Spencer’s ability to conjure up any kind of random information on the spot but the exact moment you saw him open his mouth you knew he was about to make the situation worse.

“In fact, Barker’s grandmother had a fascination with the macabre. She would often tell gruesome stories which she presented as true tales so he grew up with the fear of being murdered in his own house.” 

Garcia gawked and raised a hand in his direction, simultaneously turning your way. “See?! Forgive me if I don’t think that having my entire body ripped apart by giant hooks is the ultimate frontier of pleasure!”

“And I’ll never look at a puzzle box the same way! What if it’s a brain teaser from Hell and there’s one of those chattering monsters inside?” she added and you had to hold back your laughter because Spencer’s perplexed frown was probably one of the cutest and funniest things in the whole world.

The mustache glued to his upper lip and the cravat he wore over a white shirt and black vest were only adding to it so you forced yourself to remain serious. “I’m sorry… pizza and a movie from my dvd collection were all I had to offer on such short notice,” you said, to which she replied by shaking her long, wavy hair.

“Oh no, sweet pea! You did great, I’m just too attached to the illusion that life is a rainbow to be into the traditional Halloween gore,” she sighed and wrapped herself in a colorful poncho. “Hey, Raven Man! Ready to leave?”

Spencer squirmed: an IQ of 187 and still he was unable to come up with a semi-plausible lie when it came to hiding the truth from his friends. Feeling the weight of her curious stare he swallowed nervously.

“I was kind of considering the possibility of going to the midnight screening of Nosferatu, at the Silver Theatre. It’s the 100th anniversary so the Silent Orchestra will play the entire score live, have you ever heard of them? They use contemporary musical idioms to convey the art of pre-talkies films to modern audiences, they’ve been widely acclaimed for their work.”

Penelope raised an eyebrow. “Midnight screening, huh?! Which means you don’t need a ride home… what a coincidence,” she teased, leaning forward to squeeze you in a passionate hug. “I knew it! I saw it the minute I walked in!”

This time was your turn to shrug with a puzzled expression: Reid and Garcia should have been on the opposite side of D.C. for a relaxed dinner at the Morgans’ after a thorough raid of all the neighborhood porches. However, Derek had called just as they were getting in the car to inform them that Hank got unexpectedly sick and forty-five minutes later All Hallows’ Eve enthusiast Reid (dressed up as Edgar Allan Poe) plus a very concerned Penelope had showed up at your apartment, making you wonder why on earth wasn’t she already busy baking since she kept repeating chickenpox called for the best pumpkin pie ever.

“Well, there goes our plan to keep a low profile,” you groaned as you closed the door behind her, and Spencer’s eyes widened in surprise. 

“How…?! Is this what they call ‘female intuition’?”

“Call it whatever you want but I’m glad she’s not mad we didn’t tell her right away,” you replied, proceeding to wrap your arms around his shoulders, “and I can think of another person who’s probably very happy for you, now.”

Spencer got rid of the fake mustache with a pensive stare. When it finally dawned on him that Garcia’s phone buzzing during your impromptu horror-themed movie night had in fact started out as live updates on their godson’s health and most likely turned into a gossip session about you two as a couple he squinted.

“I almost bailed on going trick-or-treating with them. I didn’t because I wouldn’t have missed it for the world, but I also wanted to see you. It’s our first Halloween.”

You nodded. “Maybe we can still get tickets for Nosferatu. You’re a terrible liar, so I’m sure there really is a midnight screening at the Silver Theatre.”

Spencer stared at you, entranced, then pulled you closer and in a heartbeat your lips met his - a sweet caress, tender and soft, your breaths entwined and your noses rubbing against each other in delicate strokes. You gave him a gentle push and he plopped down on the couch as you placed one knee on either side of his legs to straddle him; one of his hands sneaked behind you, exploring you as if he was trying to blindly map your whole back. 

You felt his other hand on your waist, hesitant. 

Three months had passed since the day you both came to the conclusion you were not “just friends” - three months made of late night phone calls from six different States, of handwritten silly notes you hid in his leather bag each time you drove him to the airport to catch a flight for Houston, three months of you hoping things would eventually move past the PG rated phase.

Three months of your self-consciousness sowing the seed of doubt in your heart, encouraged by the notion of whom he got to share his workspace with: you were no Emily or JJ and even if Spencer wasn’t the type to pay attention to details he frequently referred to as ‘trivial’ you were growing less and less confident.

“It’s fine, you can touch me,” you whispered, guiding his palm to cup your breast. They were pretty difficult to ignore, nevertheless he always seemed to steer away from them as much as he could.

You ran your fingers through his hair until you grabbed a small chunk of his curls; Spencer gasped for air and you brushed your tongue over his lower lip, letting out a muffled moan when the heat between your legs became almost unbearable. You started grinding on his lap to adjust tightly against his body.

“Wait…” he whined, squirming under you.

A second moan escaped from your throat while the pressure of his stiff cock hit your thigh but he shoved you away to free himself and spring to his feet, shaking heavily as if he was experiencing a full blown anxiety attack. 

His cheeks were flustered and his hair stuck to his dampened forehead so that he couldn’t even look at you straight - which gave him the perfect excuse to avoid doing it altogether. “I– I’m sorry…”

“No, no, I am…” you muttered, because the guilt building up in your chest felt so heavy you find it difficult to breathe.

Spencer was standing there, fumbling nervously with the cravat around his neck; his body language was screaming discomfort and he was clearly thinking of an excuse to remove himself from the situation. It was then that the hidden and irrational side of you, the one that desperately feared he would have disappeared forever if you’d let him go, kicked in and a rush of adrenaline came running down your spine.

“Please…” you continued, placing a hand over his, “it’s okay, really… there’s no way to control it, you should know better than anyone—”

“Why? Because I’m a man and men are supposed to have zero impulse regulation?!”

The embarrassment and shame in his voice broke you: you had sworn a thousand times in your mind to do your best to be his solace, yet now it seemed you were hurting him like no-one had ever done before.

“No,” you replied, “because you’re the genius, here, and you should know it’s a perfectly healthy and natural reaction.”

He huffed, visibly irritated at what he must have perceived as a patronizing tone. A different sort of emotion crawled under your skin, sparked by the amount of tension stagnating in the air.

You offered him a cushion and glanced at him with your usual no-nonsense attitude. “Sit down, so we can have a proper conversation? You know, like… functioning adults.”

Spencer pouted for a second, evaluating numbers and statistics about two years and a half’s worth of interactions. The truth was, intellectual affinity was such a familiar concept for the two of you that talking your way through an issue was indeed a synonym for a positive outcome. 

He grabbed the cushion and held it onto his stomach to shield himself from your gaze, though it was purposely focused on his face; you thought it was best to put some distance between your bodies when he sat on the couch again so you folded your legs underneath you, shivering like a cold draft had found its way inside the room.

“Listen, we can both agree this is not your regular, everyday casual topic of conversation… which is why we’ve never discussed premarital sex—”

“I’m not against it,” Spencer rushed to declare, “I’ve assumed it was the same for—”

“Sure, no! Ditto,” you confirmed.

His furrowed brows relaxed while his mouth curved in a timid smile. “Did you know that every person’s intimate relationships follow a script that has been written according to their own individual attitude towards all –uhm, sexual experiences?”

“I did not,” you admitted, and Spencer’s hands started dancing to the sound of his own words. 

“There are sets of guidelines for appropriate behavior, each partner in consensual encounters acts as if they are an actor following a script rather than acting on impulse alone. Researches indicate that women are more likely to initiate contact in well established relationships, negotiating sexual activity in developing relationships can be difficult 'cause both parts have multiple goals to deal with, such as providing relational definitions or following specific standards or morals.”

“Yeah, speaking about relationships… I think we’ve been in one since Christmas, we were just too dumb to say it out loud. And to each other,” you explained. “Sounds like a well-established to me but what’s your take on us?”

He curled into himself. “Every time we’re together I know there’s no other place I’d rather be. I’ve never even imagined it could be possible, I want to feel you even closer… and I’m so afraid I’m forcing this on you—”

“You’re not, I want it too,” you reassured him, “but to be honest I was starting to worry you were not into… me.”

Spencer’s beautiful eyes roamed over you and what you could see was all but repulsion. “Actually it’s the complete opposite.”

“So, what if my script says I’m ready to take things further?” you inquired, inching towards him to tug at the cravat of his costume. 

Spencer cupped your face and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Mine is on the same page,” he whispered.

Your fingers immediately went to the vest he was wearing and trailed the line of buttons in a slow movement; you undid them one by one, the hems eventually coming apart to reveal the white shirt underneath.

“Tell me if anything doesn’t feel good,” you purred while you loosened the cravat to uncover his Adam’s apple. The way his muscles tensed as it bobbed up and down drove you crazy, so you teased him with the tip of your tongue - your lips grazing over the short stubble. 

Damn him and his impeccable bone structure: the scruffy look suited him so well it always sparked in you the urge to pin him to a wall and sink your teeth into his tender flesh. You loved how he could sport a smooth, professional style when the situation required it still wasn’t concerned with shaving each morning, almost as if it was an impractical activity which took energy away from whatever he considered to be a priority at that moment. 

You heard something flop on the floor and stopped your ministrations: the cushion he’d been holding over his stomach wasn’t there anymore, meaning you got to notice his trousers were becoming increasingly tight.

You squeezed his knee to make sure he was prepared for a more intimate contact then you slid it even further on his leg, giving him a couple of minutes to adjust to your gentle strokes before you felt confident enough to move the action to his inner thigh.

Spencer gasped, surprised rather than shocked or disturbed by how close you were now to where he was aching, and he leaned back to ease the pressure of the fabric but kept his eyes on you. 

He gave a silent nod in response to your interrogative stare, so you finally traced the outline of his hard cock between your thumb and index.

He jolted this time and muttered under his breath, a deep rasp in his voice you didn’t expect: you were unprepared to hear your name spoken as it was the quintessence of pure desire and you quivered, the throbbing in your ears rolling to your core.

You kissed his temple as you pointed at the waistband of his trousers. “Can I…?”

“Y– yes…” he muttered.

His clothes didn’t have any space left to accommodate his bulge. You palmed over it and felt an impatient twitch, which nearly had Spencer cursing; it was becoming torture for him so you reached for the zipper. 

For a split second the historical inaccuracy of a Victorian era costume featuring a device first introduced years after Edgar Allan Poe’s death hit you - a remark Reid himself would have been very appreciative of, which showed how much you could relate to the way his brain worked. Then you shook out of it and peeled his slacks open.

You crumpled the shirt over his stomach and marveled at the sight of his soft belly, the flawless navel, the dark fuzz pointing directly to his raging erection. With a cautious approach you freed it from any restraint, chewing on your lower lip as you often did when you were entirely focused on a challenging task. 

You couldn’t exactly say you had many options in your mind to compare him to but you had done a lot of fantasizing: now that he was in front of you, undressed and defenseless, you were downright mesmerized by—

“What’s wrong?!” Spencer screeched, interrupting your train of thought. “Is it odd? Does it look odd?!”

You shook your head, taken aback. “... odd?! No, why?!” you asked. “It’s just…” you petted the roundness to demonstrate, “I like your tummy so much.”

The way it pressed against his belt whenever he sat next to you on your couch or his was overly inviting and in the past weeks you had to fight the temptation to sneak a hand inside his shirt to squish it, because you didn’t know how he would’ve reacted. 

“Really?!” he marveled, confirming he wasn’t even aware you had a thing for soft tummies. His soft tummy, to be specific.

You smiled and leaned forward to rest your forehead against his. “Are you okay with me doing this?”

Spencer nodded, his eyelids half-closed, so you let your fingertips follow the trail of hair below his belly button; his hardness twitched again when you got near, then you wrapped your hand around it. 

You both moaned in unison, a harmony of pleasure that filled the silence of your living room. You moved along his entire length, feeling the satiny skin sliding over the shaft, and he threw his hair back in a movement that left his jugular exposed: his neck was too inviting and you sucked on it, the groans vibrating in his throat reverberating on your lips.

You gripped tighter when he got used to your caresses. As soon as his muffled whimpers seemed to increase in frequency you circled your thumb over the tip, spreading his leaking precum over the sensitive head. Spencer was at loss for words, a good indication that he was definitely enjoying the moment.

You were enjoying it too; you started to rub your legs together, your imagination running wild and picturing all sorts of scenarios. The mere thought of having him inside of you made you want to touch yourself but you resisted: Spencer was undoubtedly new to this and deserved someone in his life to love him and shower him with attention, so you decided to put his release before your own.

When you twisted your hand at the base of his cock he jumped, missing the bridge of your nose by a few inches.

“Too much?!” you cooed, and he seemed to come out of a sort of drunken stupor.

“No, no… it’s good, I like it…”

You sighed. “Spence, you have to tell me if—”

“It’s really good,” he replied, the urgency sensible in his tone. “Don’t stop,” he pleaded, low-key ashamed of how needy he’d sounded.

You pecked him on the nose as a reassurance you accepted and cherished this version of him: he wasn’t the kind of man to be interested in the crude physical aspect of sex, he’d made it clear. He wasn’t desperate for just anyone to satisfy him - he trusted you to do it, because he knew you were safe in each other’s arms.

You shifted to adjust at his side and returned to your previous occupation; you let your other hand wander over his thigh as a forewarning, then you sheepishly cupped his balls so you could provide additional stimulation and send him over the edge.

He bucked his hips, a loud “Oh, God!!!” escaping from his mouth before he grasped a fistful of your hair. He was hungry for you, his tongue sliding lustfully against yours and his breathing so ragged you were sure he was getting close. 

Kissing him was your drug of choice but you also wanted to watch him come undone, thanks to you, so you turned your head while he tensed: he arched his back and bucked his hips once more, nipping at your earlobe. He became harder as he spilled himself over your fingers, wrist and his own stomach with a feral growl.

You didn’t let go of him, not even when his whole body finally slumped down.

The well-defined jaw and unruly curls falling on his face, now so serene, made him appear like a Botticellian masterpiece. Botticelli would have never painted one of his subjects in such a disheveled state, for sure, but the contrast between his angelic aura and the fact he was sprawled on the couch with his trousers unzipped and his softening cock still in your hand was a vision to behold.

“Hey,” you hummed as he re-opened his eyes and found you looking at him, “you’re too cute to be real, you know that?!”

Embarrassed - yet adorably proud - Spencer lowered his gaze, only to grimace at the stickiness on his belly. And on you. “I made a mess, I’m s—”

“We made a mess. Besides, it’s nothing a towel can’t fix, don’t be sorry,” you said, patting his tummy.

You were almost tempted to ask him how long he’d been saving it for, in a clumsy attempt to remind him you’d fallen so head over heels for him you were not at all grossed out; at the last moment you ruled the joke out, though, stretching your legs to get up instead. “Give me a couple of minutes.”

He flashed you the most awkward smile and you forced your feet to move towards the bathroom. 

You washed your hands under the hot running water and silently watched a part of Spencer swirling down the drain; the floral scent of the soap was now in the air but you could still feel his - coffee and cologne, accentuated by the faint traces of sweat on his skin. 

You had just discovered something new: Spencer was often oblivious of how good he looked (despite the dark circles under his eyes) and that was no mystery, but the idea he might have been insecure about different parts of his body was something you’d never taken into account. If being a couple was the natural consequence of the emotional bond between you - rather than a result of some physical infatuation alone - why was he so preoccupied with your reaction to his half-naked self?

Your brain was going in severe overdrive. 

You inhaled and exhaled a couple of times, your fingers gripping on the honed marble of the countertop, then you dried your hands with a towel, grabbed a fresh one and returned to the living room; the instant you approached your couch you realized Spencer had been doing a lot of thinking of his own, and your heart sank into your stomach.

“Wunderkind, are you alright?” you questioned as you offered him the towel so that he could clean himself up. “What’s going on in here?” you added, tapping lightly on his temple.

He shrugged and proceeded to meticulously remove any trace of his seed from his belly and clothes before tucking the shirt into the waistband of his trousers. “Nothing special.”

His left eyebrow raised, due to an involuntary movement of his facial muscles: it was a flash, a glimpse, the undeniable proof he was hiding something. The sound of your intrusive thoughts and fears got so loud you wanted to scream to cover their noise.

“Your microexpressions say otherwise,” you retorted.

Spencer lifted his head to meet your eyes, mouth agape, and you couldn’t decipher the meaning of such a bewildered reaction. You had always been able to recognize his lying frown, his anxious smile, the suspicious squint and a hundred more variations: you were not a member of the BAU but you were an expert on detecting and classifying his emotions, yet you’d never seen that one before. 

“It’s… uhm, I’m wondering if it was good for you.”

Your heart leaped and bounced back where it belonged. His job required him to be the one calling people out on their behavior, not the other way round; your presence in his life forced him to face a situation in which his skills as a profiler couldn’t shield him from his own vulnerability, so he was in serious need of some consolation.

You bent over to whisper in his ear. “It was.”

“But you didn’t...” he nervously licked his lips, “and I want you to. Just tell me how.”

In the back of your mind you were 100% sure it would have been the right moment to confess you’d been harboring a few insecurities of your own but your fight-flight-freeze response was already answering on your behalf, making you freeze on the spot.

“Spencer…”

“You don’t think I can?!” he inquired, still convinced his lack of experience was the motivation behind any episode of miscommunication. 

“NO! It’s not about you,” you responded in a hurry, hugging him as he was still seated on the couch. “Or maybe it is… ” you gestured to your whole figure, “I guess I’m a bit worried this isn’t what—”

Spencer wrapped you in an equally sweet hug, his chin dimple pressed on your abdomen. “This is soft,” his hands ran to the back of your knees, trailing up, “it’s so soft I’ve got only one thing in mind every time you hug me and I have to stop myself…”

He stopped talking mid-sentence when you guided his palms over your chest and he finally laughed, fascinated by the feeling of your breasts through the shirt.

If he was so happy at the idea you were starving for his touch and was clearly eager to reciprocate it was time to consider the strong possibility he wasn’t just settling for less. “Do you really—”

“Yes!” he replied, enthusiastically. “But I could use a few hints, you know.”

You knew. “May I sit on your lap, kind sir?”

The ‘are you even serious?’ pout on his face deserved an award; now you were both allowed to act silly without the slightest concern one of you was making fun of the other, high on the intoxicating concept of true intimacy.

You positioned yourself so that you were seated on his groin, your back flat on his chest and your head nestled in the crook of his neck, thanking Mother Nature for the existence of refractory periods. Not that it was necessary, but Spencer hooked his left forearm around your waist to secure you as his tongue glided over the soft skin behind your ear. “How do I start?”

“Step one: make some space,” you tipped him.

He gulped loudly and began to caress your knee, ghosting his fingers along the thigh-bone. You shivered in anticipation and when he tried to reach for your inner thigh you spread your legs apart; he flattened his palm, gripping on your muscles and rubbing back and forth - still keeping some distance from your most delicate spots. 

You turned to offer him your lips. “Tease me… up and down, light touches.”

He did as he was told. When he ran the back of his hand over your mound you whimpered, the oversensitivity being too much to bear combined with the mind-blowing taste of his mouth over yours.

“Isn’t it frustrating for you?” he managed to articulate in between kisses and you rocked your hips against him.

You could already feel the familiar and insistent throbbing, accentuated by the fact that delayed gratification was a real pain; you were dying for him to placate the fire his hard cock had sparked in you, so you grabbed his wrist and guided it over your stomach, down the front of your panties.

He gasped at the feeling of your tender flesh, the curly hair, the dampness - too many sensory inputs to process all at once. “You’re so… warm?”

“Core body temperature is higher than the temperature of the skin,” you reminded him. 

“So warm,” he kept repeating, basic biology facts lost on him because his brain seemed to have switched off. 

His palm grazed over your folds and your legs fell further open to give him better access; you stroked his left forearm and tilted your head back. “Only two fingers now, Spence… up and down. But don’t go straight for—”

You tensed when his fingertips danced on your clit and he gripped you even tighter. “Sorry,” he mumbled, but the sensation was so good you could only smile.

“If you plan to go there it’s left and right. And draw a few circles around, big and small...” you explained before words turned into muffled moans as he put your suggestions into actions.

You were still grinding on his lap, your back glued to his chest, and he took advantage of the proximity to trap your earlobe between his teeth, sucking lightly at each change of the pattern he was tracing.

You squeezed his wrist when the flame inside of you grew fiercer. “You can slip your finger in if you want.”

Spencer let go of your earlobe and paused. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve been thinking about it for weeks,” you admitted, the weight of your secret vanishing in the air like a puff of smoke.

He sighed and shifted underneath you; just as you were ready to tell him he didn’t have to if he wasn’t comfortable with the idea he slid his middle finger past your entrance and you shuddered in his embrace. His hands were elegant, veiny, and his slender digits made for playing piano or reaching your hidden crevices - you had no doubts about it, but judging by how he was sitting still he had more than one question regarding what to do with them.

“How do I feel? Spence...?”

Even if you couldn’t really see his face, you knew he had a confused-slash-excited look on. “Hot… and wet, I never thought—”  

“You like it?”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?!” he asked in the cutest high-pitched tone and you laughed, making you both wince at the sudden movement. 

All the words in any existent language put together couldn’t describe the amount of affection you had for him. “I like it, Spence,” you hummed, “and it would be even better if you tried curling your fin— FUCK!” 

Spencer wasn’t one to waste time once he was given a specific instruction.

He pushed his finger forward and curled it as you said, gliding in and out to slowly familiarize himself with the different textures of your inner walls. He adopted a very empirical approach, experimenting several techniques based on what he’d learned not so long before, while you whimpered and moaned his name; he was moaning, too, and so prettily you couldn’t control yourself.

“Spence, I need more…” 

He nipped at your jaw, his long hair tickling your cheek. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t, I promise”, you panted, almost out of breath.

When he slipped a second finger in you realized that his arm wrapped around your waist was the only thing still keeping you in place: your legs were giving up on you, your hips swayed to let Spencer’s fingers plunge deeper as your back arched and your fists closed around his clothes. He was pumping relentlessly, overwhelmed by your wetness and the way you were taking him inside like he was a missing part of your own body; he tried to reach for your mouth and you turned to grasp the nape of his neck.

“Your hands are perfect,” you whined, “you are perfect…”

He huffed, his heart pounding fast. “Are you…?”

“Please... make me come, Spence,” you begged him in a whisper.

He pressed his thumb on your clit and started alternating between rough circling motions and the upward movement of his fingers, as you bucked your hips at a frantic pace; your thighs muscles contracted, you clenched around him and you ears plugged as you climaxed - something that had never happened to you before.

You tugged at his hair and screamed his name, before settling against his body once the tension faded. 

He kept his fingers inside and he cuddled you throughout the aftermath of your orgasm, planting butterfly kisses wherever his mouth could reach and cradling you like his only mission in life was making you feel safe and protected. 

Your self-consciousness awoke first, despite the rush of feel-good hormones flowing in your bloodstream.

“Am I crushing you…?” you mumbled, and he grunted as you wriggled free to lean forward and pick up the towel from the floor. 

He stared at his wet fingers with a pensive frown, then he wiped them clean and turned to face you - now seated on the couch with your legs across his and your forearm rested on his shoulder, so that you could play with his curls. 

“Doctor, you deserve a gold star for your performance.”

He smiled and lowered his gaze for a second. “I’m very good at following instructions.”

“You’re not bad at improvising, either,” you pointed out, “the thing you did with your thumb…?”

“I figured it was only a matter of combining the exact pressure and the right angle. Technically speaking—”

“Spencer?!” you cut him off, before he could lose himself in his own rambling. “Thank you,” you added, kissing him lightly on his lips before you stood up to fix your panties and trousers. “You can tell me all about the mechanics behind one of the best orgasms of my life on our way.”

“Nosferatu. First Halloween together…?” you elaborated when he looked at you in total confusion. “You’ve changed your mind.”

He shifted on the couch, his hazel eyes fixed on you. “Is that okay?”

This time you looked at him with your best ‘is ice cream cold?’ frown: you wanted to spend eternity with him, not just an hour or two more. You climbed into his lap and tangled your fingers in his hair while he cupped your breasts.

“What if I get…? I mean... again?!”

“Well, it’s not going to happen right now, Professor!!" you snorted, and his giggle sounded like celestial music. "But don’t worry, we’ve got the whole night."

NB: I'm not using my regular taglist for Spencer Reid smut fics but I'm obviously tagging only the users who sent a request. If you wish to be added you can send me an ask or leave a comment below with the request to be added.

[foreficfandom]

POV: You Are Actually MUCH More Powerful Than Alastor (ch. 3 - "Taking Notes")

(Alastor x Reader, g/n, queerplatonic/sex and romance favorable, fan theories, God!Reader) (AO3)

As far as the wider population of hell was concerned, Alastor disappeared after the Extermination with his tail between his legs. Vox made sure his viewers didn’t forget it, showing the footage of Alastor’s prone body no less than eight times over the course of four days. By the time the hotel was newly renovated, the Radio Demon being back in hiding was old news. 

Hell’s populace was cynical and jaded. They took the news in stride, aware that as far as anyone knew, Alastor was right around the corner, seconds away from a new murderous streak. But danger was always right around the corner. Distinctions between dangers mattered less if the outcomes were always a guarantee. 

Alastor didn’t plan on laying low for long. The angelic energy still festering in his chest prompted great pain whenever he used his dark magic. It took several days for it to completely dissipate, and it left scars that occasionally twinged with phantom jolts. Akin to nerve damage after burns. 

He didn’t let you see the wound in full. You had offered to speed up its healing, but he would rather defenestrate himself than show you his bare chest. However, he was quickly allowing himself more casual dress within your private presence, a remainder of typical ‘30’s societal norms. If a gentleman made a friend, he could remove his hat, gloves, and jacket. If it was a close friend or family, he could be shirtless if needed, when out of the public eye. 

Like when you and he made plans to further plot in his room, and you had arrived to Alastor in his pants, shoes, a belt, and a white sleeveless undershirt - what would be called a tank top. He was using a flat iron, freshly heated from his fireplace, carefully pulling and pushing it upon a dampened shirt spread tightly across an ironing board. You could now appreciate his limber, bare arms and collarbone, which were lightly haired with a gradient coat, colored more darkly further towards his hands. He had only the slightest muscle bulk, mostly in his forearms, and only due to a deficit of body fat to cushion it.

“Couldn’t you just magic your wardrobe clean and pressed?” You teased, closing the door. 

“Of course I could, my dear. But nothing beats a job done by your own hand!” 

Cleverly spoken. After all, Alastor’s magic weren’t extensions of his own will, but of his jailers. You approached the opposite side of the ironing board, the slight steam of sizzling water reminiscent of a little sauna. 

“So, Alastor. I’m sure you’ve agonized over every fine detail of your deal. You should know that there’s limited chance your creditor would see any more advantages to take.”

“Yes, I’m aware,” Alastor said, continuing his ironing, “so I’m going to take this opportunity to play kitten. Let’s pretend that plonk Adam managed to lodge a real stinker into me, and despite my best efforts, it’s hindered my abilities pathetically! I couldn’t shatter a stemware if I tried!”

He placed his hand on his chest as if a fainting damsel, the hot iron held aloft. You noticed with amusement that his elk-down has replaced his armpit hair, leaving it smooth like a child’s.

“And so Alastor would take drastic measures to be powerful once more? Anybody lucky enough to know you would certainly expect the Radio Demon’d be desperate to get his arsenal back.”

“Precisely! I will swallow my pride and put on a great show. Soon enough, it’ll get their attention.”

You took a second to ponder. “Beings like them believe their indentured souls are largely grateful for their gifts, and not chomping at the bit to reverse it all. They’re arrogant like that. After all, you certainly owe a lot to their influence.”

Alastor looked like he was about to refute your words with his bitter resentment, but considered a second further and went back to his chores.

“Well, I suppose they haven’t been all cruel. As a mortal man, I knew I was protected by forces unseen. I believe I am still being protected.”

“In more ways than one. Do you have any clue how many illnesses you dodged while eating your victims? They even debated on whether to let the listeria permanently damage your large intestinal tract. They settled on just the temporary infection.”

“What’s listeria?”

“A bacterial parasite. Causes loose stool, vomiting, and fever, and can resolve itself after a couple of weeks. First discovered in the late 1920’s, but wouldn’t be in everyone’s medical books until World War II. You got it from the back-alley surgeon.”

“Is that what that was? I was throwing back Ostrex for days. I swear I had never been more ill.” Alastor shifted his shirt so that he could iron the left sleeve. The fabric sizzled anew. “Well, aside from when I watched Way Down East to see what the fuss was about. That wretched Porter Strong gives me strong retches, all right!” He cackled alongside a canned studio laugh track.

“How shall we advertise your weak state? You wouldn’t want to roam Hell’s streets like you used to.”

“That’s where I’m hoping you can come in. You, with your millennia of experience.” He gave you a sly eye, smiling as ever but you could see the pointed daggers. 

You crossed your arms with an exhale. “Actually, I do have some ideas. Simply put, we fake a new competitor of yours, and let them run far more rampant than you’d normally allow.”

You knew men like Alastor. If he could allow it, the spotlight would never leave him.

Stimulating the opposite would be a tell-tale sign that the Radio Demon was indisposed. 

Alastor narrowed his eyes, as if reading your mind. “And who would this new competitor be?”

“Me, of course. Like you’d trust anybody else to be in on it.”

Every Overlord was once an unassuming sinner soul. It would be an on-going process, but with careful pretense you could convincingly step into the shoes of Overlord. 

Your avenue would have to be something that threatened Alastor’s specific audience, not just another jumpstart with a seat at the table. Dread Vox would be a good comparison. You’d just take a leaf from his book and aim for the media masses. 

And as a content creator, you wouldn’t have to bother with physical territory, which decreased the risk of encountering physical confrontations. You didn’t want to play-act some street scuffle with an Alastor forcing himself to feign weakness. He probably couldn’t bring himself to play act meek in-person. It would be hard enough to have him remain out of the public eye - or rather, public ears.

“The longer I go uncontested by you, the more suspicious it’ll seem. Before long, your creditor will get the hint.”

Alastor gave a “Hmm” of consideration, finishing up his ironing. His smile was small, but unpained. 

After a minute of silence, spent watching Alastor hang his laundry in careful sets and whisk away the ironing set with a snap of his fingers, he turned to you, lips curled ever upwards. 

“Very well. We will cultivate the rise of a new Overlord. Together.”

— 

The next day was a slow, but relaxing affair for the hotel. After finishing your administration duties, you enjoyed catching up with Niffty on gossip, before lounging in the parlor with Angel Dust, who had been carefully pampering himself since morning. He was fresh out of his perfumed bath, fur conditioned and silky, and asked for your help in applying a fresh manicure. An endeavor made harder considering that he had eight hands. 

The television screen popped and sizzled as Alastor entered from the hall, apparently deciding to pay the two of you a visit.

“Aww damn it, Kelsey was just about to reveal her deep, dark secret,” Angel Dust whined. The television’s audio finally stabilized and revealed the cast utterly distraught over whatever the step-daughter had confessed to. “Could you maybe cool your anti-TV thing if you’re gonna crash my soap time?”

“Why, it’s hardly something I can control.” Alastor threw his hands and eyes upwards in disregard. 

“You know, back in Alastor’s day, entire families sat to listen to the radio just like we do with television,” you smiled demurely at the two of them. 

“Yeah, well, ‘back in his day,’” Angel mocked your tone, “they also brewed poisonous moonshine in toilets, ate banged-up cans of brown windsor soup every other day, and probably had more cases of TB than kids to die from it. I died in nineteen-fucking-forty, I know the low-down. Hell, I think nonna remembered the actual Civil War.”

Unlike Alastor, Angel Dust was a sinner who found little trouble adjusting to modern technology. Many of the sinner souls who died young embraced things like internet and electric cars, whether they died during the 20th century, or the 17th. 

Cultures of the living found their way downstairs with little delay. Nobody was sure why, but some suspected it was because all technological progress can be considered sinful. You knew it was because earth and hell - and heaven, and purgatory, and all sapient souls - existed as one simultaneously. If Segways existed both physically and within mortal awareness, then so shall it be in hell. Certainly, Segways would not escape the mortal consciousness without great effort. 

“Well, back in your day, housewives could only earn money in Tupperware pyramid schemes, children didn’t learn about evolution in school, and everyone was obsessed with Spam,” you teased. 

You had told everyone you died mere years ago. True, there was a tangible generational gap between you, Angel Dust, and Alastor, all of you could feel it, but in your case it was much more … complicated.  

Angel took your needling in stride. “Eh, at least we had toothpaste. I heard that Great Depression suckers only bothered with charcoal dust, like, once a week.”

At that, you smirked at Alastor, who you’ve teased about his unfortunately-yellow maw more than once. It would have been normal for his time, and the fact that he’d only ever had to pull two would actually be considered impressive. 

But you were a being that greatly valued hygiene. Something to do with your heightened senses picking up on every stray molecule that builds on the body, but you privately joked that it was because ‘cleanliness is next to godliness’. 

“Now, now, my dainty friend,” An approaching Alastor made a point to mimic Angel’s delicately elevated fingers, reminiscent of a wilting flower, “the future may look greener on the other side, but sometimes, olden days were the golden days. Why heck, one could claim that not much has progressed at all! Look out the window there, and tell me you don’t see the same rampant crime and barbarity, no matter the perpetrators from my century, or not! In fact,” Angel pulled a face as Alastor entered one of his long-winded rambles, always intending to (and unfortunately usually succeeding) in dominating the room, “I declare that mankind’s one constant has been its depravity. Always the same distasteful impulses.”

“And mankind’s moralities are never constant?” you offered. 

“Oh please,” Angel said simultaneously as Alastor’s “Goodness, no!” 

“Back when I was a kid, people thought left-handedness wasn’t Jesus-fearing. People sure don’t think so, now,” Angel continued. 

“And whatever’s casting humans to hell evolves just as its victims do. When’s the last time you saw some pitiful gilly drop down here solely for premarital relations? ‘Twas the case just some fifty years ago.” 

Angel snorted. “Yeah, if abstinence awarded you points, I’m waaaay off the mark. And, well, it don’t seem like it for certain, but for all I know, it’s still in heaven’s rulebook.”

“Hah, if only that was the case,” you threw a none-too-subtle look towards Alastor, who returned with a slow, absolutely withering glare.

Of course, Angel Dust noticed. “Whoa, Alastor man, you died a virgin? But you were probably, like, forty.” 

“Oh hardly,” Alastor sardonically hissed through his teeth. You didn’t point out that he died a mere two years from the mark, not something you’d call ‘hardly’. 

“Well, hey, if your abstinence wasn’t enough to get you upstairs, then that’d be free reign to let wild down here, wouldn’t it?” Angel Dust smiled. “You probably had lotsa old-timey fans when you first arrived. Wouldn’t be a shock if you have lotsa admirers today, too. Pick up a dame from the speakeasy for a nightcap over at your place? Or let some knockout daddy plow you in the bathroom?”

A vein popped in Alastor’s temple. You ducked over Angel’s half-painted hand to hide a grin. If it were anyone else, you would have felt sympathy for the teasing. But, in your opinion, any little blow to Alastor’s inflated ego was always warranted whenever one managed to get their hands on them.

“Can’t say I’ve ever bothered with any of … that , I’m afraid.” 

Angel Dust looked incredulously at Alastor. “Never? Even in hell? Never done the vertical tango? The hankity-spankity?” 

“Not every man is as covetous as you, my fellow.” Alastor leaned on his cane with both hands, his posture as rim-rod stiff as a telephone pole. You watched his torment in amusement. 

“Huh. Goes to show you never know what’s goin’ on underneath it all,” Angel Dust nonchalantly concluded with a thump back onto the cushions. He returned to his bottle of varnish. 

“I expect you to be prompt for supper this time!” Alastor exited the foyer but called over his shoulder. “I won’t be taking a still-wet manicure as an excuse again!”

He didn’t pause in his application. “Yeah, sheesh. Like what’s he gonna do? Send me to bed without food?” 

You finished applying on Angel’s third hand, and moved to the fourth. “You want to make the rules, then you’ll have to be in charge of the cooking for once.”

“Not gonna happen! Don’t think I’ve stepped in front of a stove since I was a kid. Well, aside from the prop ones in a movie or two. Frilly apron and everything. Why’s he always the chef, anyways? Not like Charlie’s ever made a Thanksgiving turkey for us.”

“Ask him, not me.” Alastor didn’t make meals every day, so if the hotel’s residents didn’t expect a meal from him, then you were all due to fend for yourselves that evening. Most, like Vaggie and Husk, visited the cheap eateries in the neighborhood. Some defaulted to leftovers, or frozen pre-packaged meals (Niffty was especially fond of those).  You and Charlie didn’t have to eat every day, though you kept up the facade of mortality. For the longest time, you were the only one brave enough to eat the leftovers from Alastor’s midnight stress-cooking. 

“You know, I could see Charlie trying to cook for us, her poor suffering lambs.” Angel was finishing up the delicate white strips on each nail tip, done in one or two practiced strokes. You intentionally numbed your proficiency and took much longer to draw a passable line. “But she’s a princess, so maybe she has no idea how to cook anything. Probably for the best she hasn’t tried, then.”

A moment of silence, then Angel piped up once more. “Speaking o’ Charlie, she apparently got some hot letter in the mail this morning, and’s rushed out the door. Haven’t seen her since.”

“Oh? Have any idea why?”

“No idea. I was at the bar with a hair of the dog, and heard Charlie make a big fuss before rushin’ out. Took the letter with her. Sounded important, but couldn’t tell if it was a happy important, or a nasty important.”

You gave a ‘hmm’. “And what about the king? Have you seen him around?”

“Nope. Guy’s been gone since yesterday evening, but that’s nothing unusual these past days, is it? You ask me, something’s brewin’ with the bigwigs up top. The royals, I mean.”

The Goetia Royalty. A long-winded line of hell-borne beings, some of them older than hell itself. For the most part, they kept out of the public eye, intent on living their privileged life with as little interruptions as possible. 

“I hope that Charlie doesn’t get handed more trouble,” you said. “She’s busy enough as it is.”

Angel just shrugged. “Hey, she wanted to start this whole redemption project to begin with. She can deal with it.” You knew he meant it as a compliment. “I mean, I don’t envy her pressure. More and more shit’s been pilin’ on her shoulders these months. And she’s not gonna be unloading any of the responsibilities if she can help it, that wouldn’t match up with her vision, would it? Princess Of Hell, finally doin’ something productive for a change. Prob’ for the best, since lightening her load’ll probably do in the spine of whatever sucker volunteers. All pressure’s heavy at the best of times.”

You sighed in sympathy. “Tell me about it. You never expect to be the cause of a black hole.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Did you get any hints where Charlie went off to?”

“No. If she’s not back until supper, Alastor’ll probably throw a fit. He loves her fawning whenever she sits down to his cooking.”

You made a mental note to text Vaggie if Charlie doesn’t make it back before sundown. Whatever trouble was brewing, it would likely affect your and Alastor’s plans. You couldn’t risk too many interlacing threads getting tangled.

—

“You could always start a ‘podcast’ series. I detest them less than most modern medias. I may even give yours a listen!”

“Podcasts may be a successful culture, but I fear it wouldn’t be aggressive enough,” you said to Alastor, both of you sat across one of the small tables dotting the hotel study, an open notebook and pen in front of you. “It’s gotta be something people obsess over. Something that earns a lot of money and eats up a lot of time. Something unrepentantly mainstream.”

“Oh, with your charisma, I’m sure you could be a trailblazer in making any media a mainstream mainstay,” Alastor alliterated. He took a sip from his mug of lightly-brewed coffee, more akin to a tea, to avoid over-exciting himself this late in the afternoon. 

You sighed tired, crossing out ‘popstar’ and ‘idol musical group’. Too short-lived to make a successful Overlord career out of it. Alastor’s flattery had a ring of truth, you could theoretically manipulate any field you’d end up in, but you didn’t want to make this any harder than it needed to be. 

He had finished up the last touches on his pulled pork recipe before leaving it to stew in the kitchen, and tracked you down out of curiosity. It was just the two of you in the study for now, but you kept one eye open in case someone else decided to pay a visit. 

You hovered your pen over ‘celebrity surgeon’, just about to ask if Alastor could turn down the volume of the big band he was blaring obnoxiously, before you sensed two pairs of footsteps approach. The two of you turned to Husk and Vaggie strolling in.

“Oh joy, you’re here,” Husk groused sarcastically. It had not gone unnoticed that Alastor had spent the last few days wandering around the hotel more often than he usually did, rather than couching himself in the secluded corners.

“Now, is that any way to greet your friends?” With a crank, Alastor snapped his head to an unnatural 30°. Vaggie, who had grown a modicum more tolerant of the guy, didn’t take the opportunity to needle him, and proceeded to guide Husk to a specific bookshelf in the far corner. She traced her finger along the spines, then pulled out a small hardcover and held it out for Husk.

“Here. From Kuomintang To Kraft Mac: A Brief Timeline Of Events From 1950 - 1970 ”, Vaggie said, handing the book over. “We’re missing the next volume, but Charlie can order it.”

“It’s fine. Thanks.” Husk opened and browsed the first few pages. You could see Leviathan's symbol printed on the opening cover. One of the official hell-produced encyclopedias that detailed living events for the sake of its sinner residents. 

Alastor didn’t hesitate to milk the opportunity. “Why, Husker, my good man! Are you feeling a scholarly bent? I wasn’t aware you knew which end to open a book from!”

“We were talking about hot sauces,” Vaggie allowed herself a small grin at Husk’ dramatic eyeroll. “I know you like using the tabasco pepper-based ones, but Husk was just telling me that he missed the sweeter, pulpy pastes from his time spent across the sea. I said that the world has slowly come around to spices from all over the world.”

“Back in my day, you were lucky to find a dusty bottle of Trappey’s at the mart. I’m surprised America embraced hot spice at all,” Husk added. He spared a glance at the rest of the encyclopedia collection, which boasted a recollection from prehistoric civilization to the rise of the internet. Some of the volumes were depressingly wrinkled and worn, and more than one was absent. 

Alastor didn’t respond, instead rested his chin on the back of his hands, smiling peacefully at the space over Husk’s shoulder. You knew he was thinking of his mortal days, too, when most people made their own bottled sauces from a summer pepper harvest, acidifying mashed jalapeño and cayenne in vinegar and salt, sealing the repurposed cola bottle with cork and wax. It wasn’t until the ‘50’s when hot pepper sauces started appearing in most American recipe books, and it would take a further 30 years before international cuisines reached proper globalization. 

It was nice to see Vaggie and Husk getting along. And perhaps the both of them were learning to tolerate Alastor a bit more. 

Still, both of them eyed Alastor with a distasteful eye, which didn’t phase him in the slightest. Husk, in particular, would rather he spend as little time around the man as possible. Before Alastor forced him to work for the hotel, Husk almost never had contact with the man. You were sure he missed those days dearly. 

The same sentiment wasn’t quite shared by Alastor, who didn’t hold Husk in high regard, but enjoyed his company well enough. And he’ll put up with Vaggie’s ire to a surprisingly high degree. 

“Vaggie, do you know where Charlie is? I heard she left this morning, and it’s almost dinnertime,” you asked. 

Vaggie’s expression turned slightly pensive, and she averted her eyes. “She’s … meeting with old friends. It’s complicated.”

“Royalty issues?” Husk asked. 

“Sorta like that. She should be back soon,” Vaggie assured, but you didn’t miss the subtle glance she threw towards her phone, sitting in her skirt pocket. 

“What kind of friends keep a busy woman for so long? It must be important ,” Alastor said, emphasizing the last word with an oily grin. Vaggie shot him a warning glance. She had far from forgotten the deal he had convinced Charlie to make. 

“Like I said, it’s a royalty issue. Those types of friends aren’t ones you can risk losing. Aren’t you an Overlord? You should relate to the whole, ‘high-society’ sort of thing.”

“Oh, Vaggie dear,” Alastor flapped a hand dismissively, “I haven’t bothered with the ins-and-outs of hell’s Overlord dog-eat-dog kerfuffle in years! You see new faces come and go like the wind. I may enjoy the company of a select few that share a spot at the table, but not for power. For their conversation! For their fun! For keeping up with me on the dance floor, hah!”

“Like Overlord Rosie?” You asked, and he affirmed, “Precisely!”

“You know,” Husk was still scanning over the encyclopedia, speaking to the air as if on an aside, “I heard from a certain little spider that you’re still as lady-less as freshly fallen snow.”

Vaggie raised an eyebrow as Alastor’s smile turned downwards. “And your point?”

“Just sayin’. You got all your lady friends, what’s stopping you?” Husk met Alastor’s unamused glare with a little smirk. 

“Well, it just so happens that my friends tend to be women. They bring the best out in me!”

It didn’t take a genius to understand Alastor’s personal preferences in friends. The lively and prevaricative Niffty, the gregarious and wayward Mimzy, the cordial and extroverted Rosie. This was in comparison to those that annoy him; the prickly Vaggie. The invasive Angel Dust. Charlie, herself, must have drawn Alastor’s affections by virtue of simply being jovial. He loved to see smiles and loved to hear them sing. 

Not being a man would also score a couple points in the ‘friends’ column. And speak of the devil, Alastor piped up; “And men? Brutes, much of them, graceless.” 

Vaggie pointed out that he was a man, which apparently was the expected set-up for his prepared joke, “I need no reminder! After all, I find myself shouldering the burden of being proper gentlemanly to compensate for those who aren’t! Ah, the days when men at least did things like start a conversation with a proper greeting, and ended with a proper ‘goodbye’. I do miss when evocation was a schooling curriculum. Husk! Recite!” He pointed his cane at Husk, who gave a long suffering groan. 

“I have no idea what that means.” 

“Exactly! Did your teacher ever have you recite The Lady of Shallot , or at least See Spot Run ? Come, old fellow, give me hope that the art of spoken word hasn’t been completely lost.”

To your surprise, Husk rose to the bait with, “Tôi đéo quan tâm.”

It was a clever blow. Alastor was skilled, but he knew no second language fluently. His Louisiana Creole was dreadful. His pride taken a blow, Alastor’s grin twitched, but he pulled himself back together with a twirl of his cane. 

“Ah, like a dock sailor. Impressively worldly. But as brutish as an ox.”

The chatter went on, but you focused on your notes. Alastor was exaggerating, plenty of modern people knew public speaking, especially the entertainers. Any television figure worth their salt made sure their audience could follow along not just with clarity, but with enjoyment. News anchors, game show hosts, social media vloggers, podcast narrators, video game streamers -

Streamers . Scheduled broadcasts of live commentary. Responding to the audience in real time. Recorded in a set location. Commonly arranged by genre content. Earning thousands of dollars every year. Even sponsorships were comparably as invasive as a bugle for Edgeworth Cigarettes from during the golden age of radio. 

You wrote with vigor. Streaming would require an expensive set-up if you wanted to cultivate the proper attention. Studio lights, audio recording, multiple high-definition cameras and mounts, a backdrop, not to mention the software.

Your spacious hotel quarters would do, once you got proper acoustic foam wall panels. And luckily, Alastor’s presence in the hotel made for a very powerful modem, to his annoyance. The internet speed here is wild. 

Would you focus on video games? Viral challenges? Conspiracy theories and social drama? Offer adult content? The most successful streamers usually have one main focus, although the more famous one got, the more they could branch without risking alienating their audience. 

And once you establish your place within the internet world, you’d start to ask for more and more money from your adoring fans. Some wouldn’t be able to pay. So you’d offer a deal , instead. Plenty of people have committed to worse for the sake of their idols.

To become one of the top Overlords, you’d have to total a soul count in the five-hundreds, at the very least. Owning actual real estate would also help -shareholding a business or two, or maybe you’d develop a brand from the bottom up.

To grow from niche interest to mainstream name, you’ll make and distribute products. You’ll cultivate entertaining drama with other media personalities with the intent of going viral. You’d be on friendly terms with Alastor’s enemies, and make vague threats towards his friends. 

Alastor turned from the others to see what you were so excited about. He couldn’t quite read your handwriting upside down, but he could tell that you had hit a revelation. 

“Ah, but poor Charlie! I hope her ‘friends’ at least have the good manners to serve dinner, because she certainly won’t be arriving on time for ours! Come now, my good people, to the dining room! Husk, bring out the Austrian Riesling, it’ll pair nicely with the pork.”

“Why are we drinking good wine with barbecue?” you heard him grumble as Alastor managed to usher him and Vaggie out. You finished your notes with a flourish, stuffed your notebook away, and jogged after them. 

[eldritch-nightmare]

yandere jeff the killer headcanons.

a/n: i had a thought and then the thought spiraled. did i write this to cope? ...perhaps. apparently, when i'm sad, i write yandere content, so. the more you know. maybe i should try making a yandere blog again idk. is this kinda bad? yeah, yeah it is. did it bring me out of a gloomy slump? yeah. it did. it did it's job, so that's all that matters. about halfway through writing this i was like 'is this really yandere atp bc honestly he would just do this casually' but i mean yeah. yeah it, is. listened to pet by a perfect circle while writing this so thumbs up it influenced me a bit.

warnings: gn!reader, yandere content, possessive behavior, ownership, toxic pre-relationships, stalking, isolation, blood, murder, yeah a guy gets decapitated, implied future kidnapping, mockery perhaps, throwing up.

He wouldn't be able to tell you what it is about you that caught his interest because he doesn't know.

You lived across the street from some random couple he killed, and he saw you getting ready for bed through the window of your home, and for some reason, you just... stayed in his mind.

It honestly annoyed him beyond belief. No matter what he was doing, his mind would always drift back to you for some reason. It pissed him off, but not enough to want to kill you. Which only confused him even more.

He hates this, actually. What the fuck.

The most logical thing he decides to do is watch you from afar. He thinks that, maybe, if he stalks you a little bit, his interest in you will fade once he sees how boring you are or something, and then he can kill you and go on his merry little way.

Turns how the exact opposite happens.

A couple weeks into stalking you, Jeff learns that his interest is not at all going away. If anything, it only seems to have gotten worse. This interest he has in you unnerves him a little bit, which is saying a lot because there's not a lot that can make Jeff feel uncomfortable.

He's developed emotional attachments to people before. I mean, yeah, he's a serial killer but he's not heartless. He has feelings. He's just never felt... this before. And it's strange.

But he doesn't hate it. I mean, he does. But he doesn't at the same time, y'know?

For a while, the stalking is all he really needed. He would follow you around maybe once every couple of weeks, and you would be none the wiser. But then it became once a week. And then it was every other day. And now it's whenever he's not doing anything else.

And you're starting to feel his eyes on you wherever you go. You try to brush it off as you just being paranoid, perhaps a sudden discomfort with crowded places or your mind just playing tricks on you when you're alone. It's hard to ignore though, especially when you're in the comfort of your own home.

Jeff thinks your sudden awareness of him watching you is cute. He likes seeing you look over your shoulder every couple of minutes whenever you're outside. He likes how you're always searching for him.

And that's when a shift happens. Alongside his interest in you, a feeling of ownership begins to form.

He started to feel an itch whenever he saw you interacting with other people. At first, the itch only came when you spoke to your friends and family. But then it started to happen when he saw you talking to random service workers as well.

Now, he can't just go around and kill every single person you speak with. He can, however, kill your friends! But don't worry, he doesn't kill all of them. He doesn't want you to feel lonely just yet. He just kills the ones that are too close for his liking.

And he doesn't exactly hide that he's the one who kills them. Why would he? Besides, why would you suspect that the infamous serial killer, Jeffery Woods, is your stalker? I mean, no one would come to such a conclusion. It's all just a coincidence.

But you know better. So when you start to isolate yourself from your friends in hopes that, if there is a chance that he's the person who's been watching you these past couple of months, it'll keep them safe.

And, well... it almost makes Jeff wanna go 'awww' because isn't that just adorable? Honestly, if he didn't have so much fun scaring you from a distance, he'd probably whisk you away right then and there.

He hates that he loves you, and he loves that he can't grow to hate you.

It goes on like this for a while, to be honest. You keep yourself isolated, and if Jeff sees you getting too close to anyone, he'll kill them as a reminder to be good. You haven't even officially met him yet, and he's already in control of your life.

But don't worry, he doesn't just kill the people who try to get close to you! He also kills the ones who say anything bad about you. He doesn't take too kindly to people who badmouth something, or someone, that belongs to him.

Even if you don't want to acknowledge the fact that you belong to him, it's hard to ignore.

Especially now.

You could only stare down in horror at the gift left for you on your doorstep. It was so early in the morning, the sun only just begun rising when you had received a knock on your door.

With how things have been these past few months, you obviously were cautious when you went to see who was there.

A quick peek out the window showed you that no one was there, and for a moment, you thought that maybe some random kids had decided to pull a dumb ding-dong-ditch prank on you.

But that's when you noticed something sitting in front of your door.

You should've just left it alone. Hell, you should've called the cops or something to inform them of a suspicious package left at your house, but you didn't.

Your curiosity is going to get you killed someday, that's for sure.

But you weren't reckless. You made sure to quickly head to your kitchen to grab a knife for protection before you went back to the door to see what had been left behind.

It was... a box.

Nothing that would be too suspicious, if it weren't for the fact that you were most definitely being stalked by a maniac serial killer who may or may not want to kill you. How are you supposed to know his intentions?

There wasn't only a box, of course.

There was a folded note resting on top of the box with your name on it, and in front of it, there was a rose that still had its thorns.

Alarms were going off in your mind, but there was that feeling of being watched again. He was watching you. You could feel him looking at you expectantly, but when you glanced around outside, you couldn't see him.

But you knew he was there. And he wanted you to see what he left for you. He wanted to see your reaction.

That tidbit of knowledge in mind made your nerves spike, and you could already feel nausea burning in your stomach as you hesitantly picked up the note resting atop the box.

Your hand shook as you unfolded the note, and you couldn't deny the wave a fear that washed over you as you read the words written down.

You owe me.

Three little words shook you to your core. Whatever was inside this box was not something you wanted to see, that's something you knew. The grip you had on the knife tightened for a moment as you set the note to the side and carefully moved the rose of the box, making sure you didn't prick your fingers on the thorns.

You had to take in a few deep breaths, setting the knife down and using both your hands to lift the flaps of the box to take a peek inside. You... weren't entirely sure what you were looking at for a moment, brows pinching together as you open the box a bit more to get a better look at the item sitting inside of it.

That's when you make eye contact with the decapitated head of a coworker who had been harassing you these past couple of days.

And you immediately scurried back inside and hurried to the kitchen, where you proceeded to throw up the dinner you had last night into the thankfully empty sink.

You had to swish some water around in your mouth to get the leftovers out, and you left the sink on to clean some of the vomit as you hurry back outside, this time holding your phone to call the police and keep an eye on the stuff that would no doubt be considered evidence.

But instead of finding a box with a head in it, you find a different sight. The box, the note, and the knife you had left behind were gone. The rose was still there, sitting on top of a new note.

This one wasn't folded like the last one, so you could see the words clear as day, and it truly felt as if the world was caving in around you as you stared down at the note. It felt like you were being mocked, to be honest.

See you soon.

[nicolesainz]

Hey, really love the writing😍 I was perhaps wondering if it were possible to do a Jenson Button x reader x Fernando Alonso. (Age gap with a young reader like 21years old)

Where the reader is Jenson's girlfriend and Jenson takes her along to a grandprix. After the race while Jenson's busy with interviews the reader walks around the paddock and runs into sweaty, sexy Alonso and he flirts with her FULLY aware that she's Jenson's girlfriend.... And yea some romantic drama perhaps... I fully understand if you're not able to do it though, it was just a suggestion. Thank you for your awesome work❤️

Hands close and teammates closer (JB22 x FA14)

Jenson Button x f!reader x Fernando Alonso

Author's note: Thank you so much for the support, it means the world to me! I am so sorry this too way too long to write. I hope you like it and enjoy it as much as possible.

Also Jenson admitting publicly that Fernando is his man crush, is my new Roman Empire. What do you think? Will Nando go to Mercy along with George for the 2025 season?

Warnings: angst, jealously, possessiveness,

Summary: requested

Monaco has to be one of my favourite circuits on the calendar. And trust me it is not because of the luxury and mamma mia vibes its feeling radiates. What I love, is the fact that I can get lost in the streets of the crown jewel and still be able to guide myself through the lines of the circuits and the fierce sound of engines.

Since this is Jenson's final year in Formula One, I have decided to follow him along in all the races taking place in the calendar, so that this historic season finishes off in a smooth but memorable way. What better feeling than witnessing twenty men in front of your eyes racing hard core in the fastest vehicles on earth and one of them being your boyfriend, right?

With all the eyes being on focused on the two silver arrows that are the championship contenders as well, no one really pays attention to Mclaren's lack of luck this season. Multiple engine failures, pit stop difficulties, strategy errors. It hasn't been the most perfect season the team has had.

Whether it is first, second or even twentieth place, for me, supporting Jenson through thick and thin is my priority. I have witnessed his glory days but that will not stop me from enjoying watching him fight for points in the championship to help the team get back on their feet.

What pleased Jenson even more was when both he and Fernando were into the points after a difficult races. This helped them gain some confidence agains the other midfield teams. Although Jenson wasn't very pleased when Fernando was always following me and him during the race weekend at the paddock. Well, it was mostly me he was following.

Fernando has just gotten out of a long term relationship and seeing his teammate in a happy and healthy one, wasn't boosting his mentality very much. It was the exact opposite. Jenson couldn't really be able to help him given that he hadn't been through such a difficult heartbreak ever.

At first, everything was innocent and friendly. Me and Fernando were casually chatting about our daily lives, his as an F1 driver and mine as an English Professor. Always laughing, making jokes and freely giggling with one another.

Then, when the Spanish Grand Prix arrived and all the drivers were waving at the fans from the paddock and grandstands, everyone was cheering and shouting Fernando's name, given he was the national hero and as he was waving at the audience, he grabbed my waist and held me against his side, as if I was his lady.

That night, Jenson was about to murder his own teammate for the first time. Because the downfall didn't start there. At the Austrian Grand Prix, when Fernando had an unfortunate DNF due to an engine failure, he rushed angrily back to the garage and everyone was trying to console him.

After a few moment, one of the mechanics asked me to go and seek him, given that they were told he wasn't in a position to talk to anyone else but myself, which was very odd.

Austrian Grand Prix flashbacks

"Hey Nando. I am so sorry for the malfunction." I open the door to his driver's room slowly, given that I wasn't aware if he still had his race suit on.

"Come in, Y/N, and thank you. But you know, it's never easy to retire the car after having a good race." Fernando still hadn't looked at me. It is a gutting feeling for a champion to retire so unfortunately.

"I am sure a win is close. One final push and you will be back on the top step of the podium. I have no doubts." I tried to sound as positive as I could, although I knew deep down Mclaren was not capable of winning any race or barely making it to the podium.

"You are the only one who believes in me anymore, y/n. I do not know how to repay you." He got up and took my hands into his, caressing them softly. I really wanted to pull my hands away from his grasp, but instead I made small steps towards the door.

"Jenson believes in you as well, the whole team does. Just do not lose faith in yourself."

"Don't try and give them your credit sweetheart. You are the only one." Before I could react, Fernando landed a kiss on my cheek but I quickly removed my body away from his and walked out of his room.

End of flashback

When I told Jenson, Fernando kissed me he was fuming. Obviously he asked me if I kissed him back, but I denied it. Because I hadn't kissed him, I simply ran away. If there was a hidden camera on Fernando's room I would use it as proof.

At the next race in Hungary, Jenson was still very angry at Fernando that he willingly pushed him off the track and lost 5 places at the beginning of the race, which led to Fernando getting P15 by the end of Lap 1.

Mclaren mechanics were disappointed at Jenson's behaviour. Why would he push his own teammate off the track. Rumors started spreading around the paddock that Jenson was plotting against Fernando and trying to sabotage his races so the team would take into account his bad performances and eventually fire him.

Jenson finished the race in a worthy fourth place, whilst Fernando in P11. Very mixed feelings for the results given that this was the best Fernando could do with a damaged and already underperforming machinery.

Interviewers were flooding Jenson with questions about the first lap incident, what was the actual cause, if he had done it on purpose or it was an accident. All the replied was "I didn't want to lose my position".

As if there wasn't enough drama with Nico and Lewis in the paddock and on the track, now Fernando and Jenson were fueling the media with the answers each were giving to the press.

"I needed to guard my position in order to gain more places"

"I was trying to avoid the cars behind me and eventually fell."

"I did not mean to push Fernando. Clearly driver's error that he went off the track."

"I don't know what Jenson was trying to achieve but he clearly had things going his way today. Pushing off his own teammate. Unbelievable."

"If he thinks I did it on purpose, fine by me, but I know my worth and I am aware of the mistakes I do. First lap incidents occur very often, if he doesn't already know that."

"He is a world champion, like myself. Why is he behaving like we are in go-karts? We should work as a team."

After the interviews, Jenson was called in from McLaren so he could explain himself about the incident and try to save his reputation from getting wrecked because of what he said in the press.

When I walk away from where I left Jenson, I am met with a full blown red, still in his overalls and sweaty Fernando. He is very angry and you can tell from the way his knuckles have gone white.

When he raises his head and looks at me, somehow all the anger that had possessed him, seemed to wash away with a smile covering the pain.

"I am so sorry Fernando, I have no idea why he did so. This all seems ridiculous. I will try to reason him."

"No need cariño. I will take care of him. I know exactly why he is doing so."

What did Fernando knew that I didn't? What was going on, I thought to myself as his eyes were getting shadier and lustier. The use of the pet name made me feel uncomfortable as he was crossing a line that shouldn't have been crossed.

"Why is he doing it then?"

"Because he is clearly jealous. Can't you see it? You are always coming to me in the end."

"I care about you Fernando but not in the way you imagine."

"That is why you let me kiss you the other time in Austria? I know what you are trying to do sweetheart. If you want to be with me just say it."

I was stunned by his statement. From where exactly did he extract this conclusion that I wanted to be with him. I was so disgusted by his saviour. He knew I was Jenson's fiancee. I loved him dearly, so why on earth would I want t be with another man?

I didn't calculate my actions and as Jenson was coming out of the office, my hand instantly landed on Fernando's smirking face. The slap echoed in the room and Jenson's eyes widened enough to pop out from anger.

"I love Jenson so much. There is a reason why I gave up my job to be with him and travel around the world. I will marry this man and I will not allow anyone to interfere in our relationship. I don't know from where you drew the conclusion that I am in love with you, Fernando. I am sorry but you crossed the line."

I ran away from the room and Jenson was following me along, trying to catch up on what was had happened. Tears were storming down my cheeks and I was all flushed up and tensed. If Fernando marked the end to mine and Jenson's relationship I would never forgive him.

"Darling please wait up. What happened?" Jenson's soft voice stopped me on my tracks. I turned around and he was met with a distraught version of myself that he had not met before.

Jenson took me into his arms lovingly, kissing the top of my head, shushing me to calm down, whilst caressing my back gently. I was so shaken by what Fernando had accused me. How could he?

"Talk to me dear. What did he say to you?" His voice was calming me down as he knew I wasn't to blame for what he saw.

"Fernando accused me of hitting on him and wanting to be with him instead of you, which in no way is true." Jenson didn't reply to what I had said. He was silent but tightened his grip on me.

"Say something, anything. I promise to my life that I did not do anything of what he said. Please trust me." I was begging him to utter a single word.

"I am trying not to go back there and chop of his dick. I know you would never do anything to harm our relationship baby. I believe you." He looked deep into my eyes and my heart instantly softened.

"I will stop being in the garage if it means avoiding him at all costs. I will go into the grandstands. I don't mind really." I offered but Jenson instantly rejected it.

"Are you insane? I will simply ask Daniel if he can take you in with him and Max. I trust them blindly, plus you will have much more fun over there." Daniel and Max, the super dynamic duo everyone had been talking about. They are two very funny guys and Jenson has a very good relationship with Daniel.

"I would never want my future wife to not be in the paddock supporting me. I love you immensely and I would hate not having you around, seeing your beautiful face and having someone encouraging me."

"I love you with all my heart Jenson. I am your and only, forever. Thank you for taking care of me. Even in a different garage, I will cheer for you. Even if that means silently so the Red Bull guys don't kick me out."

"Everyone loves me darling, I am sure they won't mind. But don't root very much for Daniel cause he is a womaniser" He winked at me and I laughed with my head hidden inside his chest.

[nilolol30]

Hide and seek

"C'mon it will be fun!" Macaque continued to ask the same thing over and over today refusing to accept the rejection.

"No way it would be too unfair" you turn back to face the sink finishing up washing the dishes "okay how about I wear those noise cancelling headphones? They work decently well muffles most noise" with a sigh you put the hand towel down.

"Why do you even want to play hide and seek? Are you that bored? And where are we even going to play it it's not like people casually play hide and seek in the city people would probably think you're a murderer or something" you can't help but laugh to yourself at the last part.

"Uh yeah I'm bored plus it's fun and you have been too busy doing boring stuff and we can play it at the forest near Wukong's temple it's not like the guys always there unless it's training Mk" Macaque shrugs leaning his arm on your shoulder.

"Okay fine" you sighed and smiled a little at Macaque "Ha knew you couldn't say no to me!" Suddenly he grabs your arm and pulls you into his shadow portal without warning.

Suddenly you can feel the ground on your shoes and you can see again it was beginning to get dark the sunset made most of the forest trees a warm orange then Macaque gave you a firm pat on the shoulder.

"Okay since I'm like the best I'm going to give you a bigger headstart about.... fifteen minutes and you just gotta hide for one hour easy" Macaque chuckled seeing you roll your eyes and prepared to put the headphones on.

"But quick tip!" He paused for dramatic effect "I am still faster" you stared at him for a bit "that's not a tip-" Macaque puts the headphones on.

"Count down starts now" without wasting time you booked it into the forest he was right it didn't matter if you ran and hid as far away Macaque could get to the other side of the damn island in seconds so best bet is to hide close by he wouldn't suspect that maybe.

Soon you find a pretty decently tall tree not too big but good enough and you climbed it to the top leaves hiding you from above it was good all you had to do was just put some of your weight on a branch but for extra measure you clinged into the trunk.

After a bit you can hear the faint voice of Macaque calling out "Here I come!" It didn't mean he knew you were close by but it still freaked you out.

It was mostly quiet and dark now you think you hit the twenty minute mark but you couldn't tell you left your phone at home but suddenly footsteps below you caught your attention.

Looking down you see Macaque walking past he was checking a few bushes and behind trees and then continued to walk away it took everything not to move an inch in case even a small leaf made a sound.

It was two minutes after you spotted Macaque when suddenly the tree was shaking and you lost your grip falling down with a small scream but you landed into a firm set of arms.

"Found you~" Macaque smirks drawing out his last word while effortlessly cradling you.

"Give me credit I was hidden for around twenty to thirty minutes best" Macaque chuckled pulling you closer to his chest "Actually I knew where you were at seventeen minutes" Macaque began laughing as he saw your face turned into disbelief to disappointed.

"Are you kidding me!" You playfully punched his shoulder he fell deeper into his laughing fit putting you back down and wipes away a fake tear.

"Sorry but I was being nice-"

"More like being a cocky bastard!"

"...I also purposely went the opposite direction-"

"YOU MOTHERFU-"

[the-batcomputer-project]

Batfamily (and other) Headcanons that will be canon in my DC timeline:

-Dick is Pansexual. Show me this man in romantic relationships with more than just woman. I also feel like he has potential to be a sex positive icon which I feel is important. Sex portrayed as something that can be fun and casual, not explicitly reserved for romantic partners and situations.

(edited to rephrase and remove offensive language towards the pan community)

-Jason is Asexual. Get some ace representation but also give him some healthy romantic relationships where sex is not the center or a necessity. (I’m partial to Jason/Roy but to each their own)

-Jon Kent is dyslexic. Insert Percy Jackson reference about his brain being wired for kryptonian, but no, the dyslexia comes from Lois.

-Jason was absolutely theater kid before his death who managed to get the lead role almost every time, and somehow maintained a healthy schedule of theater rehearsals, good grades, and patrols.

-building off of the last one, Jason is Bruce’s favorite allowing him to get away with pretty much anything, but no one notices this because Jason is convinced Bruce hates him, and everyone else (understandably) believes Cass is the favorite.

-Cass took up gardening after watching Alfred tend to the rose bushes out front, and is now responsible for the very impressive garden on the Wayne Estate. She loves being to create and nurture life instead of kill, like the was born and raised to. Jason also taught her the language of flowers and she has little flowerbeds for each member of the family. Only Jason knows what they mean (also Alfred but he knows everything)

-Tim isn’t a caffeine addict, but he does have severe insomnia and ADHD. Because of that, caffeine typically has the opposite effect on him, hence why he always seems to be drinking a cup. Either for the placebo effect to stay up and finish a case, or to make him tired enough to fall asleep.

-Damian struggles to connect with people and express gratitude, appreciation, and love. He asked Cass about her garden one day and very intently sat and listened while she taught him about the language of flowers. Each family member woke up the next morning to a drawing of a bouquet of flowers pinned to the door with a knife (Jason has his framed in a safehouse he is fairly sure none of his family knows about)

-The batcave has a secret vault of “bad ideas” which was started by Dick as a child with the original Robin suit Bruce designed (it had pants) along with videos of Dick wearing said costume and falling off of gymnastics bars. (Think of the video explaining why strippers don’t wear clothes with the person falling off the pole over and over)

-Bruce is autistic. He gives off tism vibes (you’re trying to tell me that a man who dresses up as a bat and fights crime as a trauma response to watching his parents be murdered in front of him is neurotypical?) and I also want to see more a positive autism representation in main characters in media.

-Dick’s use of made up words such as “aster” and “whelmed” come from the fact that he spoke very little English when he was first adopted by Bruce, and decided that using obviously made up words made his slip ups less noticeable, or people would assume he did it on purpose. Even after he mastered English, he continued using his made up words because they just made sense (the batcomputer and jl database have a hidden file called the “DICKtionary” unlinking all his words and their meanings)

-Jason can’t drive. He died when he was 15 (you have to be 16 in Jersey to get your permit), was revived in Nanda Parbat so there was no need to drive, and was too embarrassed to mention it by the time he returned to Gotham and the Batfamily. This is his deepest, darkest, secret.

-As a child, Dick was convinced Batman was a vampire (and still isn’t entirely convinced otherwise)

-Tim collects little trinkets. Dick noticed this early on, and made sure to get a little souvenir trinket for Tim every time he went on a trip. Bruce noticed and started doing the same thing, and so did his friends after a while. Tim proudly displays his collection, because to him, each trinket is a reminder that people are thinking about him and care about him. (Most of his possessions in Drake Manor were necessities like clothes, or things he had bought for himself. Barely anything was a gift)

-Jason has OCPD, and needs things to be an exact certain way, and struggles when they aren’t. It’s one of the biggest reasons why he is often so frustrated with Bruce, who tends to do things in a different, certain way.

-Cass is actually the most neurotypical in the family, though because she has learned how to be a person through observing, she has picked up on many neurodivergent traits, specifically stimming.

-Steph’s aesthetic is retro pastel pop, mixed with maximalism. She loves bright colors and loud designs (though purple is still her favorite by far)

-Alfred keeps guns stashed all over the house in case of emergencies. Bruce hates this and has tried to remove them, but has given up as he can never seem to find them all. Alfred also brought up the good point of “I am not a vigilante like you, Master Bruce, and I am not quite as young as I used to be. If there is ever an invasion of the manor, I would quite enjoy the security of being able to protect myself.”

-There is a list of who is banned from the kitchen. Bruce is at the top of the list, Tim isn’t allowed to make anything more complex than instant food, Cass and Damian aren’t very good, but at least make an effort to learn so are therefore allowed with supervision. Dick has a partial ban. He is an absolute disaster in the kitchen, except for soups, and sarma (his mother’s recipe was one of the few things he brought with him from the circus and was obsessed with perfecting it as a kid, leading it to be one of the only things he can actually make) Steph isn’t allowed to cook, but she is a proficient baker. Duke isn’t a horrible cook, but mainly avoids the kitchen, preferring to stay out of Alfred’s way. Jason is the only batfamily member who is not banned from the kitchen under any circumstances. He has a tendency to stress cook, and likes trying new fancy recipes, because on the streets he only ate what he could find. This gives him a sense of control.

-Superman wasn’t a great dad to Connor at first, opting to send him to the farm to stay with Ma and Pa, but after a stern talking to from Bruce, came around started making an effort. Connor is an excellent big brother to Jon.

[livingdreams97]

Wednesday Addams -- "The wolf in my bed" (Part 3)

Wednesday Addams x Male reader/oc

Summary: The new girl at Nevermore Academy is forced to live with a person who is the complete opposite of herself. But what will happen when the brother of said roommate has a personality similar to Wednesday's?

Words: 3.679

PREVIOUS

Masterlist

Wednesday POV

My research on the monster was progressing, but it was not doing so at the expected speed and every time I managed to advance one step, I was forced to take two steps back.

I don't know how he does it, but it's like the monster knows every move I'm going to make and I don't like that at all.

For example, the homeless man who lived in the old meeting house; who was murdered two nights ago. The monster sees me in the ruins and that same night kills the person who lived in that same place?

It's not a coincidence.

But thanks to that event, I got all the information about the bodies in the morgue and I have deciphered a pattern. It's subtle, but reading the reports and seeing the photos of the bodies it's easy to decipher.

Each victim has had a part of their bodies removed. The first victim was missing a kidney, the second a finger, the third his gallbladder and the homeless man from the meeting house two toes.

I don't know why the murderer needs these parts, but I plan to find out.

Thornhill 's class is anything but new information, since everything she is saying about orchids and their pollination is something I learned when I was 9 years old.

I hear a complaining sound from my left, causing me to look towards the person sitting next to me through my peripheral vision and seeing the school artist.

Xabier: I hurt my back fencing.- he excuses himself quickly without me asking him.

Mrs.Thornhill: The orchid produces pheromones that imitate a female insect, thus attracting males.- continues with her explanation. -Once the plant is pollinated, what do the male insects get in return?- questions waiting for the answer from one of the students.

Bianca: Nothing. - she answers before anyone else. -Like all the boys at the dance.- she finishes amusingly, causing most of the students to laugh at it.

Mrs.Thornhill: Okay, okay.- she says to get the attention of all the students. -I know you're all looking forward to Saturday, that's why I'm not going to send you homework.- she informs us, causing a small celebration on the part of the rest. -But I'm going to need volunteers for the decoration committee, anyone interested can come see me.- she says with a smile ending the class.

As soon as class ends, everyone gets up from their seats and immediately starts talking to each other.

Xavier: What? Aren't you going to participate? - he asks me directly. -Don't you like disco balls and surprise punch? - he asks with some sarcasm. -There will even be a DJ, Mc Blood Suckaz - comments with some amusement .

Wednesday: I prefer to stick needles in my eyes.- I respond immediately. -Although maybe I will do it anyway.- I comment casually, knowing that I would prefer it a thousand times over going to the dance.

Xabier: Invite someone to have a little fun.- he says bending down to put the book in his backpack and that's when I see it.

On the right side of his neck, which was being hidden by his shirt and jacket; three scratches. That has not been done in fencing.

I get up from my chair, deciding to follow my classmate and try to find out how those injuries could have been caused. He's hiding something and I plan to find out what he's hiding at all costs.

POV You

I grunt tiredly, hiding my face in my arms and resting on one of the tables in the square. This is getting repetitive too fast.

Enid: Do you want to stop growling, you're exaggerating.- she assures me, hitting my arm.

Y/n: Then stop asking me the same thing fifty times.- I growl again, raising my head from my arms and giving her a dirty look.

Enid: I haven't asked you more than 3 times! - she exclaims in defense and I look at her, raising an eyebrow.

Y/n: Three times in the last five minutes.- I point out. -But you've been asking me the same thing for five days.- I remind her breathing deeply, not wanting to lose the little patience I have left.

Enid: I'll stop asking you when you do it.- she assures me, crossing her arms and with a smile full of superiority.

Y/n: And why do you want me to ask Wednesday if she wants to go to the dance with me? - I asked her confused with the reason behind her insistence. -What do you get out of all this? - I say without understanding anything.

Enid: Because you would be a perfect couple and because unlike you, I would love for my best friend and brother to be together. - She answers with a huge smile.

Y/n: Three things- I list with my fingers. -First, what makes you think that Wednesday of all people wants to go to the dance, this being an unnecessary social event for her?- I ask, raising a finger. -Second, at what point has your mind thought that your best friend wants to be in a romantic relationship with someone, when she almost didn´t agree to be your friend?- I raise the second finger.

Enid: Because I know... - she starts in her defense but I tell her to shut up.

Y/n: I'm talking.- I remember, looking straight into her eyes. -And third, haven't you learned from what Ajax did to you?- I ask her with some anger in my voice, but my anger is not directed at her.

Because even with all my warnings not to go out with any of my friends, she asked Ajax on a date and he stood her up. The worst thing of all is that my best friend doesn't want to tell me why he stood her up and I haven't spoken to him in several days because of that.

No one plays with my sister's feelings, and Ajax 's black eye is an example of the consequences of that.

Enid: You didn't need to say the last point.- she growls at me angrily and with a certain gleam of pain in her eyes. -But whether you want to listen to me or not, there is something between you two and you can't deny it.- he assures me, looking me directly in the eyes.

Y/n: Well, look how I deny it.- I say with a false smile. -There is nothing between Wednesday and me.- I assure seriously.

Enid: You don't even believe that yourself.- she snorts, shaking her head. -It took her a month to let me hold her arm and you slept in her bed the first week, plus I can see the looks you give each other.- She points her finger at me accusingly.

Y/n: What looks are you talking about? - I ask, completely confused with what my sister means.

Enid: Oh please, the looks you give each other every time the other isn't looking and the intense but strange way of flirting you have.- she comments with exasperation.

Y/n: I don't flirt, I just have fun getting on Wednesday 's nerves.- I shrug with an amused smile.

Enid: That's called flirting.- she assures me as if it were obvious. -And don't deny it because you know we can spend the whole day like this.- she points her finger at me again so I can close my mouth. -So are you going to ask her to go to the dance with you or not? - she asks again with a big smile.

Y/n: I'll think about it.- I accept tiredly. -But you promise me that if I do, you won't bother me anymore with the looks that you say we give each other and the supposed flirtation.- I stretch my hand towards her, watching her bite her lip and think carefully about whether to accept or not.

I can see the internal struggle she is having in her head through her eyes and every slightest gesture on her face. I just wait in silence and keeping my hand outstretched.

Enid: I promise.- she growls after a while, accepting my hand. -But only if you ask, otherwise I can continue bothering you.- she says with a smile, shaking our hands energetically.

Y/n: Whatever. - I deny amused by her attitude and getting up from the bench.

Enid: Where are you going? - She asks me confused when I let go of our hands.

Y/n: I have homework to do.- I respond, raising my shoulders.

Enid: But Professor Thornhill hasn't sent us anything.- She remembers me confused.

Y/n: Do you only have botany class? - I ask amused by the look f confusion on her face. -I'm leaving.- I say goodbye, entering the school hallways.

I walk towards my room, thinking about what my sister told me and as if on cue I see the person we were talking about.

Y/n: Wednesday! - I exclaimed, calling her and running to catch up with her. -How are you going with the investigation?- I ask her when I get to her side.

Wednesday: Good.- she nods her head, continuing walking. -I have new clues and I have discovered something about the deaths.- she tells me and I walk next to her.

Y/n: Do the dates or the shape of the wounds form some pattern?- I ask interested.

Wednesday: No. - she denies in response and doesn't say anything else.

She continues walking in the direction of Ophelia Hall, so I understand that she doesn't want to continue talking and I decide to stop walking. I watch her walk away and turn around to resume my walk to my room.

Wednesday: Where are you going? - I hear her question from behind me so I turn around seeing her with her arms crossed and one eyebrow raised.

Y/n: To my room.- I respond confused. -I thought that since you haven't continued talking and haven't stopped walking, you wanted me to leave you alone.- I explain simply.

Wednesday: At any other time you would be correct about the message of my actions, but this is not the case.- she assures me with her monotonous tone of voice. -Now follow me.- she practically orders me, turning around and resuming her walk towards her room.

I quickly look around, making sure no one is around and run again to catch up with her.

We do the rest of the way to the room she shares with my sister in complete silence. Once inside the room, she walks over to a cork board and looks over her shoulder at me.

I approach, looking at the board and appreciating the reports and photos of what I assume are the victims of the monster.

Wednesday: There have been a total of four murders, but none of them are related to each other other than by the monster that killed them. - she explains to me, pointing to the files of the victims . -The attacks have happened on random days, there is no pattern regarding a specific number of days between one murder and another, nor any lunar phase or anything like that. - she continues explaining to me and I see each date of the murders on each victim.

Y/n: That means that wolves, for example, are ruled out since all the murders would had to be during the full moon. - I comment, reading the forensic file of the second victim.

Wednesday: Exactly, although it is clear that there are some wolves that do not need the full moon to transform. - she comments with a knowledge that I did not know she had. - You, for example. - she points her finger at me.

Y/n: How do you know that? - I ask confused, since not many people know it and it´s better to keep it that way.

Since it is very rare that a werewolf can make a complete transformation at any time, without the need for a full moon and it is something that must be kept secret.

It is very dangerous for it to be known, since it would be a perfect excuse for the normies to blame us for any crime like this and also such information can be dangerous in the hands of another supernatural being .

Wednesday: Enid.- responds simply.

Y/n: Of course.- I growl, annoyed with my sister, since she knows she can't tell anyone.

Wednesday: But it is clear that it is not a werewolf, since the claw wounds that the victims present are more spacious than those of a werewolf. - she explains to me, pointing to an abdomen, or what remains of it . -But I have noticed that in each victim, the murderer has extracted a part of their bodies and that none of them match.- she explains to me.

Y/n: You mean, the killer has taken a part of each victim 's body? - I asked confused. -As a type of amulet or reminder?- I question looking at the girl next to me, who is with her arms crossed.

Wednesday: It seems that way, but I still don't know the exact reason. - she answers me simply.

Y/n: I may not be right.- I comment thoughtfully. -But don't serial killers usually take the same thing from all their victims? - I ask without stopping looking at the photos.

Wednesday: Not always, most prefer to take any of the victim 's personal belongings. But when it's a part of the body, it varies depending on the murderer. - She explains to me and I nod, looking at her when I hear the sound of a piece of paper.

Y/n: What is that? - I ask her when I see how she takes out some pages from inside her school jacket.

Wednesday: Some very realistic and detailed drawings that I have gotten of our monster. - she responds, hanging the two drawings on the board.

Y/n: Where did you get them from? - I ask looking at said drawings.

Wednesday: From Xabier's hut.- she answers and I look at her quickly.

Y/n: He painted this? - I ask her without stopping to look at her and blindly pointing at the drawings.

She just makes a sound of confirmation, tearing her gaze from mine and moving it to my friend's sketches.

I imitate her action, returning my gaze to the paintings and paying attention to every detail of the monster.

I know that many times Xabier has very realistic lucid dreams that he then draws. But dreams are usually related to things he has seen or knows. Which would mean that he has somehow seen the monster.

Y/n: Do you think he has something to do with the monster?- I ask her in a low voice, not knowing if I want to know the answer.

Wednesday: It is possible.- it confirms my fears. -Today he had a fairly large scratch on his neck and was acting a bit suspicious. In addition to the fact that those were not the only drawings, wherever you looked, the monster's face was everywhere in that hut. - she tells me and I sigh without wanting to continue with the topic.

I decide to take a couple of steps back, moving away from the board a little and trying to think of something else.

Y/n: Hey Wednesday.- I caught her attention, causing her to look at me instead of the board. -Would you like to go with me to the Raven on Saturday?- I ask her the first thing that comes to mind unconsciously to change the topic.

I open my eyes realizing what I've said and my heartbeat skyrockets. I can see that her eyes have also opened in surprise, but they have barely opened two millimeters and if I wasn't staring at her I wouldn't have noticed.

The air in the room becomes very heavy, due to the silence and lack of response from the black-haired girl. I swallow heavily, feeling my body temperature rise and my heart beat in my throat.

Wednesday: No. - responds monotonously and for some reason that I don't understand, I feel disappointment invade my body and a phantom weight in my heart, as if I had stones in it.

Y/n: I know that you are not the type of person who enjoys unnecessary social events like dancing and that you prefer to stay in your room writing your novel. - I explained quickly without thinking. -But I wanted to ask you just in case.- I lift my shoulders, feigning indifference.

Wednesday: I don't reject you for that reason.- she assures me and I look at her confused. -It's because I've already asked someone and that person has accepted.- she tells me with the same monotony as always.

I think since I've known her, it's the first time I hate how monotonous her voice is and how impassive her face is. Because for once, I would like her to express a minimum of feelings with her features so I can at least know what she thinks.

Y/n: Oh.- I murmur a few seconds after her response and processing the information she has given me.

She doesn't say anything, she just watches me in complete silence and for the first time, it makes me uncomfortable.

Never before had I felt so watched by her and so uncomfortable and embarrassed in her presence. I don't want to continue feeling her gaze on me, trying to read me, much less for her to realize that this rejection has somehow caused something in me.

Y/n: I think I've bothered you enough.- I clear my throat, taking a step back. -I have things to do.- I excuse myself, pointing to the door and walking towards it.

Wednesday looks at me, nodding and turning her attention back to the board.

I take advantage of the fact that her back is turned to flee from the room and walk towards mine, feeling the disappointment latent within me.

These feelings are the reason why I didn't want to ask her to go to the dance in the first place. I knew she was going to say no and that I would feel bad, but I didn't think will fell this bad.

I thought it would be like that day in the ruins, when Xabier appeared and they both ignored my existence, as if I were not by their side. I thought I would feel a certain heaviness for her failure to acknowledge my existence and anger for having her full attention on Xabier instead of me.

But it has not been that way. I know that what I felt the other time was jealousy and I still don't really understand why.

Although this time it wasn't jealousy, it was as if they were piercing my chest and squeezing my heart, preventing it from pumping blood to the rest of my body.

The worst thing of all is that she has asked someone to go to the dance, it was not another boy who asked her and for some strange reason she has been forced to accept. 

No. 

She was the one who asked someone to go to the dance with her and I didn't see her very upset about it when she told me.

On the other hand, how can I know what she feels if she never shows it.

Wednesday POV

After the strange interaction with Y/n and my refusal of his invitation to the Raven, he excuses himself and I am left alone in my room.

I don't spend much time alone before my extravagant roommate walks into our room and looks at me with a slightly disturbing smile.

Enid: I've seen my brother walk away from Ophelia Hall.- she comments in a sing-song voice, causing me to look at her seriously.

Wednesday: I have shared with him the progress of my research.- I respond walking towards her.

Enid: And you have only talked about the investigation? - she asks with some emotion to which I cannot find an obvious origin.

Wednesday: Yes.- I agree emphatically. -But I need your worldly wisdom for a last minute situation that has arisen.- I say, maintaining my usual seriousness and impassiveness, but without knowing very well what I have to do.

Enid: Okay? - nods with some insecurity.

Wednesday: What are the steps to follow to attend a social event like the Raven? - I ask, maintaining my position and avoiding reacting to the inhuman scream that my roommate lets out.

Enid: Oh my goodness! Wednesday Addams is going to the dance! - she exclaims, jumping on the spot and with a somewhat high-pitched voice. -Do you know what you need? - she asks me excitedly.

Wednesday: A shot to the head? - I ask sincerely.

Enid: A dress! - she exclaims full of emotion.

Wednesday: I already have one.- I assure her without reacting to her emotion.

Enid: Is it the one you showed up here with? - she asks with some fear on her face. -It was an abomination for fashion that not even I could resurrect.- she assures me. -Thing, help me.- she says to the hand on my right.

He responds with a thumbs up, implying that he agrees with her and that I cannot wear the dress in which I arrived at Nevermore .

Enid: You need something that says: First date, get out of the way bitches! - she exclaims with too much energy. -Besides, being Y/n's sister, I can help you better.- she assures me with an even bigger smile than the one he had before.

Wednesday: What does your brother have to do with all this?- I ask normally and with some confusion at the mention of the boy.

Enid: Aren't you going to the dance with him?- she asks, erasing the smile from her face and frowning in confusion .

Wednesday: No. - I deny immediately. -I'm going with Xabier, for reasons that aren't important right now.- I explain and I see how her face contorts in a similar way to her brother's when I rejected his invitation to the dance.

Although the expression on my roommate's face is lighter and she doesn't have the lost look like her brother has had for a few moments.

In addition, the range of emotions that her face shows is not exactly the same and there is a difference between the emotions of confusion, some sadness and perhaps guilt that Enid reflects, which are easy to decipher.

His brother's were more difficult, since I had only been able to clearly see the gesture of disappointment and the emotion of pain he made for a second.

But otherwise I can't say exactly what emotions he felt, much less the reasons why he felt them.

NEXT

[separatist-apologist]

Traitors Never Win

Summary: When Feyre Archeron's father promises she'll marry notorious crime boss Rhysand Moreno, Feyre will do anything to get out of the arrangement…including framing him for murder.

Rhysand isn't about to let her go so easily.

Read on AO3 | Chapter 1

The agent cooked. Feyre had never been a cook which made living on her own hell even now. She preferred things that could be dumped into a pan and heated up, preferably in the microwave. That first morning, Feyre woke to Rhys cooking waffles. He looked casual enough in jeans and a well-fitted t-shirt and the scene was strangely domestic.

She didn’t want to think like that. Wasn’t it bad enough she was sleeping with Tamlin? What would the rest of the agents think of her if word spread she’d sleep with anyone who came knocking on her door? The problem was Rhys and his stupid, perfect face. He was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen in her entire life. It didn’t seem possible that someone could look the way he did. 

Tall, with thick, dark hair that gleamed blue in the sunlight. Starry eyes that seemed violet, especially in the dark, his high cheekbones, his full lips, his perfect jaw…not to mention how broad and muscular he was, how large his hands, just…everything about him was appealing. 

And he cooked, too.

It was his smile, though, that had Feyre really considering something purely physical. She and Tamlin had never made any exclusive promises to one another. For all she knew, he had someone in every city he visited. He was attractive enough for that sort of thing, certainly. He’d never told her not to see anyone else…though maybe he just assumed she wouldn’t try and sleep with one of his colleagues. 

All she knew was that if this had been her original agent, she would have tried a lot harder to answer some of those questions. 

Rhys set himself up in her spare bedroom which existed solely because agents occasionally stayed over before catching an early flight. Feyre fluttered around offering to help, but Rhys waved her off with that easy smile of his. 

He was on his computer in the living room for most of the afternoon, brow furrowed as he typed away. Likely letting people know he’d made contact and she was safe and whatever else it was he did day to day. Feyre was endlessly fascinated by him and found herself strolling into the room and plunking herself down on the opposite end of the cream colored couch.

“So are you a bodyguard?” she asked him. He was bigger than Tamlin and had the look of someone unafraid to take a life. 

Rhys glanced over, one brow arched. “Something like that.”

“So if…he…tries to—”

“I’ll kill anyone who tries to hurt you. How about that?” Rhys offered, eyes returning to his computer. “You don’t need to worry about anything anymore.”

“All I do is worry,” she admitted with a heavy sigh. Of course, she couldn’t tell the agent that her worries had more to do with herself and her sisters than they did with Rhysand. If anyone ever learned the truth Feyre would go to jail for the rest of her life, and her sisters probably would, too. She needed things to conclude so she could put those anxieties to rest and finally get on with her life. 

“What do you worry about?” Rhys asked absently, typing again.

“Everything,” she admitted as she drew her legs beneath her chin. “I didn’t think this would go on as long as it did.”

He nodded his head, eyes glassy for a moment. “I meant what I said. Nothing is going to happen to you. I’m here to protect you.”

Feyre sighed. “I believe that.”

And she did, if only because he got paid to keep her alive. Still, any incentive was better than none, and his presence was strangely welcome. Feyre talked to fill the silence and this time, Rhys responded to everything she said, no matter how inane. And better than that, he asked her questions. Once he finished with work, Rhys made his way into the kitchen where Feyre liked to paint. The dining room was part of the spacious, open room. Feyre would open the patio door when it was warm and paint whatever happened to catch her interest. Today she was painting more trees as she tried to get her texture and shading just right. Something about painting park eluded her until she was left with a muddy mess topped in green. 

Rhys strolled in, peering at her work before looking up for comparison. “Mind if I watch?” he asked and she didn’t, really. People were often watching her work and if it inspired them to pick up a brush and try themselves, well that was even better. 

“Only if you agree to paint, too,” she said before ripping off a sheet of paper from the pad she was using. Rhys watched for a moment, unaware she was overtaken by a memory of her offering Tamlin the same thing. Tamlin had refused, cheeks darkening as he mumbled he had talent for painting at all.

Rhys took the brush. “Don’t judge me,” he warned her. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she promised. She thought of herself as a good teacher, so while Feyre worked on not making a muddy mess of her own painting, she watched Rhys too. It was always interesting to see what people chose to do first. How they anchored line and color to an otherwise blank world. 

Rhys, like so many others, chose a pale blue for the sky while leaving a space for a bright, yellow sun. Juvenile but not awful, either. Feyre saved a lot of those details for later, though she had lightly marked out her background with some color, just to keep herself rooted in her artistic reality. 

“I can feel your judgment,” he warned without ire. “You promised.”

“It’s not judgment. Just curiosity,” she replied. “You have some talent.”

“That’s a generous assessment of my abilities,” Rhys joked. “I don’t think it’s quite time to quit my day job, though.” 

“The trick to art is practice, you know. Everyone thinks its something innate—”

“I think there is an innate quality to it, though,” Rhys interrupted, turning those bright eyes on her. “Not everyone sees light and shadow the way you do.”

“You could teach yourself,” she replied, strangely breathless. 

“Sure. But that’s my point. You see it, and I don’t.”

Feyre didn’t know what to make of that. Ducking her head to hide the flush crawling up the back of her neck, Feyre returned to her painting and so did Rhysand. In the end, he put together something entirely workable—good, even, for someone who claimed to have no skill. And her tree trunks didn’t come out muddy, for once.

She supposed he was good luck. Ever since he’d shown up, things seemed to be going better. She had ninety days before Rhysand was set before a grand jury for indictment—when she’d finally tell the lie that started her down this road. He’d go to prison, his operation utterly dismantled, and Feyre would go home. 

She’d be Feyre again. Not Sarah. She could do anything, including nothing at all if she wanted. The idea was immensely appealing. Feyre went to bed that night dreaming of the life waiting for her.

She woke to the sight of Rhys nearly naked in the hall. With nothing but a white towel wrapped around his waist, Rhys stood in the hall rifling through the closet for something while Feyre…just stared. His whole body was pure, broad, golden muscle. Ink crawled up his shoulders and biceps, ending just beneath his collarbone and elbow. She supposed he wanted to present himself as someone clean cut given he was a federal agent. Lucien and Tamlin didn’t have tattoos—maybe they weren’t allowed to be visible.

Or maybe he knew how good looking he was and didn’t want to outwardly spoil it. 

Regardless, her eyes traveled over his toned stomach to the vee vanishing into the towel and oh. Oh no. She knew right then she wanted to crawl into his lap and run her nails down his chest and once again, guilt flared in her stomach. How well did he know Tamlin, she wondered? Tamlin had been her savior and she cared about him…though Feyre didn’t love him. 

And she wasn’t his girlfriend, she reasoned.

Still, Feyre cleared her throat, unwilling to pretend she hadn’t seen him. Rhys glanced over, throwing her an easy smile. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a clean razor?”

“Shelf above if you don’t mind pink,” she replied.

“I don’t mind pink at all,” Rhys said with that easy grin. Adjusting his stance to spread his legs ever so slightly, she watched him reach that muscular arm upward and pull down the plastic container holding the razor. What, she wondered, was he shaving? His jaw was smooth, though she knew the shadow would return before dinner, just as it had before.

She liked the clean cut man, though there had been something about the rough stubble that had been distracting while they’d eaten the night before. Maybe it was just his mouth that was distracting.

She looked back up, horrified to find his gaze pinned firmly on her. And judging from the expression on his face, he knew what she’d been looking at. What she’d been thinking. 

“How well do you know Tamlin?” Feyre blurted out, suddenly embarrassed.

All the ease evaporated from his posture. “Well enough,” he said, his tone suddenly frosty. “He won’t be returning.”

“What?” Feyre asked, following after Rhys into the bathroom. “How come?”

Running his tongue over his teeth, Rhys said, “I only know the rumors, of course.”

“About me?”

Oh God. Had their relationship gotten him fired? Was that why he hadn’t texted her? He was mad? 

“Worse, I’m afraid. He was on the wrong side of your investigation,” Rhys said.

Feyre blinked, looking at the white subway tile on the wall. He was helping Rhysand? The whole time? She’d told Tamlin so much…Feyre brought her fingertips to her mouth. She should have known, she realized. Should have realized why he wanted to keep such close proximity, why he fought so hard to remain her main contact. 

“He was going to take me back,” Feyre murmured. 

“We might have lost you forever had that happened,” Rhys told her gravely. “But I’m here now.”

She nodded, turning back to look at him. He was so tall, so serious as he looked down at her, one hand braced on the edge of the counter. He had her half pinned between both himself and the sink and if she’d wanted, she could have surged upward and kissed him.

But Tamlin…oh. Feyre couldn’t bring herself to do it. “I’m sorry, I…give me a second.” Feyre closed the door behind her so he could shave himself in peace before making her way to her bedroom. She had a gun tucked away in the drawer of her side table and right then, she wanted to use it. Wanted to press it up against Tamlin’s chest and fire straight through him. 

And then she wanted to hunt down the man who’d bought her and kill him, too. She felt helpless right then—caged. She couldn’t go anywhere, couldn’t do anything. If Rhysand wanted to hunt her down, well, here she was. There was nothing she could do but hope Tamlin hadn’t told Rhysand where she was.

Feyre sighed, slamming the drawer shut. If she pulled a gun on a federal agent, she was likely to be arrested. She needed air—to take a walk and try and calm herself down. There was no need to tell Rhys she was leaving—he was just monitoring, not guarding twenty four seven. And she didn’t want to see him or his stupid, beautiful face right then.

It was too distracting and Feyre needed to focus. In the early days of her new life, Feyre had spent nearly all her time trying to figure out ways to escape. What routes she’d take, what she’d have to bring with her, where she’d even go. She’d been so heavily monitored back then that she knew she couldn’t bring a phone with her—that could be tracked. 

She’d have to buy a new one somewhere else.

What had stopped her back then was the fear she’d be running straight into the arms of Moreno. But maybe…maybe sitting complacent all these years had been the problem. If Tamlin was spying…why hadn’t Rhysand come looking for her?

It didn’t make sense—unless Rhysand had no interest in marrying her at all and was waiting for an opportune moment to kill her. Tamlin, who’d been supposed to bring her in, was likely waiting on those orders.

“Feyre!”

Feyre spun on the sidewalk, surprised to see Rhys jogging after her in a pair of black athletic shorts and a matching black t-shirt. She could see the outline of his gun in his waistband, proving once again what a fucking cop he was. 

“I’m walking,” she said when he reached her, strangely petulant. 

“You could have told me,” he retorted, running a hand over his jaw. “Jesus Christ.”

“I’m going for a walk,” she told him, crossing her arms over her chest. “Alone.”

His eyes scanned the neighborhood, not finding anything objectionable among the rows of townhouses and sapling cherry blossoms. 

“Twenty minutes before I come looking,” he warned.

“Fine,” she agreed, though it wasn’t fine at all. Feyre probably wouldn’t have spent more than five minutes had he not given her a time limit. It wasn’t Rhys’ fault she was upset, either, though she couldn’t stop herself from marching away from him anyway. He didn’t say a word about it and when she dared to look over her shoulder, he’d vanished. 

Feyre returned exactly after twenty minutes. Rhys was in the living room, casual as ever as he typed away at his computer. 

“I’m back,” she told him with only minimal bite.

He offered her a smile. “Feeling better?”

She shrugged and Rhys closed his laptop.

“Want me to kill him?” he offered with a joking smile.

“Kind of,” she admitted, though it felt awful to say. “Would you?”

“Consider it done, darling,” he replied with a wink. “Have you ever shot someone?”

Feyre shook her head no.

“We should rectify that,” Rhys said in that easy going way of his. She had asked Tamlin—numerous times, actually. And every time he’d told her no, citing agency policy that must have been bullshit. Rhysand likely didn’t want her knowing how to use a weapon and she’d been so stupid to believe anything he said. She had the training she’d gotten as a girl from her father, though who knew how good it was anymore. 

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Rhys agreed, turning back to his laptop screen. Whatever waited for him drew a deep frown and the frantic clacking of keys.

“Do you want to watch a movie with me tonight?” she asked impulsively. Raising his eyebrows, Rhys nodded.

“Yeah. After dinner. Pick something out. Whatever you like.”

And Feyre vowed to do just that.

RHYS:

Things were going too well. Better than he’d first imagined. Feyre returned to teaching the morning after they’d watched a movie together. And though she’d occupied one end of the sofa and he’d taken the other, she’d wanted to be around him. They’d passed two weeks like that, creating a little routine. He got up before her, used to being up at four or five in the morning to go over business before he went to the gym at six in the morning. He was still going to the gym while Feyre slept, but now his business centered around her. He, Azriel, and Cassian continued to talk like normal and texted in code. Azriel was having a hell of a time—he’d attempted to kidnap Elain and accidentally drove her straight into the arms of the federal agent watching her. Rhys found his antics rather amusing, truthfully. He expected the middle sister to be the easiest of the three to control and as it turned out, she was the most wily. 

Cassian, on the other hand, had taken the same route Rhys had and merely executed the agent overseeing Nesta Archeron and, like Rhys had moved himself in. To hear Cassian tell it, the pair were growing sourdough starter and doing yoga with the sunrise every morning. Rhys imagined there was something else happening there—but didn’t dare comment on it.

But if Cassian could keep the eldest Archeron docile, Rhys would have leverage when it came to the middle one. He suspected the three of them were protecting each other, though he couldn’t prove that. It was just a hunch, and Rhys had long learned to trust his gut.

After the gym, Rhys came home and made Feyre breakfast before she went to work. He wanted to make her lunch, too—but didn’t dare play that card. Not yet. She was still stewing over Tamlin, prone to little sullen outbursts whenever she remembered his betrayal.Rhys could admit he’d been loose with the truth and eventually she was likely going to have a problem with the way he’d phrased things.

That was future Rhys’s problem. Current Rhys merely had to convince Feyre to act on the attraction she so obviously felt before he whisked her away to his cabin in the mountains and fully made her his wife. He’d never tricked a woman into falling in love with him, so the finer points were a little messy.

But he figured if he could show her what their life would be like, she’d settle into it a little easier. He’d misunderstood her all these years, but Rhys understood her now. Feyre hated being told what to do. If he’d wanted her, he ought to have demanded her father keep the engagement a secret and courted her on his own.

Rhys couldn’t go back and undo the past, which left him in the present, sitting on the couch in a pair of loose sweatpants and a tight t-shirt. He had, perhaps manipulatively, gone without anything underneath the sweatpants and twice he’d caught her staring. 

Come on, darling. Climb in my lap. 

Rhys wanted to touch her so badly it was making him itch with need. Feyre maintained her position on the sofa even if her fingers twisted nervously in her lap and her eyes kept darting toward him. 

Rhys kept himself focused, legs spread ever so slightly with invitation. And still, he found himself alone that night again, fisting his own cock and frustrated with his inability to make real progress with the woman he was trying to marry.

He was on borrowed time and he knew it. They wouldn’t make it ninety days like this. Eventually whoever was supposed to show up would, and the whole thing would be up. Rhys really didn’t want to add another murder to his growing list of crimes. Each new mess made it a little easier to catch him. 

Rhys needed to do something. So the first morning Feyre was off, Rhys woke her up with coffee and eggs before announcing, “I’m taking you to the gun range today.” That was merely practical. One day she might need to know how to aim straight, to fire one shot rather than ten. He didn’t want to have to spend his time worrying that someone could get to his wife who would be unprotected when he wasn’t there. This was also a gesture of good will between them.

Can’t you see I’m better than he is? I’ll take care of you if you let me.

Feyre blinked up at him, her hair an appealing mass of loose curls. Rhys could imagine another scenario in which her hair was that tousled—he had to turn away from the sight of her before his sweatpants betrayed him. 

“Why today?”

Time is against us and I need you to be ready for what’s coming. “I should have done it sooner.”

Sooner, like the minute he’d agreed to marry her but he couldn’t go back. He wished he would have introduced himself back then rather than skulking around like a petulant child, annoyed with his own choices. 

Feyre dressed in a pair of leggings and a tight, athletic top that made it hard to drive. Hard to think, really. He was so used to seeing her in oversized shirts and dresses that hung shapelessly off her body. This was different—the fabric hugged every curve of her body in an obscene way and Rhys found himself walking slower so he could admire the view of her ass without her knowing. 

“You just point and shoot, right?” Feyre asked once they were tucked away in their booth. Of course she wouldn’t let him take care of her, shaking him off when he tried to come around her. Rhys did it anyway, if only to breathe in the sweet scent of her hair.

“Something like that,” he said, covering her small, paint stained hands with his own. Did she notice the little scars that nicked his hands? Did she wonder how he’d gotten them? “No hesitation.”

Feyre fired a round, hitting the center target every time with supreme satisfaction. She turned, eyes bright and eyebrows raised. 

“What were you saying?” she asked.

I love you. 

“I thought you’d never been,” Rhys replied.

“My father was mafia, remember? We didn’t need gun ranges…he had us shooting tin cans outside when we were old enough to stand. Besides, I did archery in high school. I think I can hit a human body if I need to.”

“You said—”

“That I had never shot a man,” she replied, the clever little thing. “And I haven’t. Yet.”

He imagined that Feyre thought she’d be shooting him. What did she picture, he wondered? Some aging creep hoping for a child bride? Whatever it was, she wasn’t imagining him. 

“You knew what I meant,” Rhys grumbled, trying and failing to be anything but amused with her. His clever woman. Rhys practically purred at the thought.

“Go on then,” Rhys said, nodding toward her bullet-riddled paper. “Do it again.”

And she did. It was, perhaps, some of the most fun Rhys had engaged in, maybe in years. They traded at some point, trying to outdo the other by mere millimeters. Rhys threw some of his shots simply to let her think she was catching up, only to utterly decimate her record moments later.

It felt like foreplay, if he was being honest. Feyre was competitive and clever and had a filthy mouth he was desperate to put to better use. 

He brushed the back of her hand with his fingers when they were back outside, careful to catch her eye when she looked up at him with surprise. Yes, he wanted to say, I did that on purpose. 

He swore he saw her blush.

Rhys took her home, disappointed when she vanished up the stairs before he’d managed to get his shoes off. He went to his computer to monitor his home and talk to Cassian and Azriel. 

Cassian:

Compromised yesterday- shot in the leg. N headed up to you, Az. Might be with civilians- don’t kill them. Just contain them until I arrive. Eta 3:25

Azriel:

Already found them via shotgun to my face. I can’t clean up your mess- fed took E back into hiding. 

Jesus fucking Christ. Rhys had days left, if that, before the feds were pounding on their door. He didn’t intend to go to jail because he got caught playing house with Feyre Archeron. They might have been fine had the middle Archeron not escaped with a federal agent. He’d check in, surely. Warn the rest of them as soon as he could? 

Still, Rhys was occupied all through dinner and the movie Feyre picked. He didn’t notice she’d scooted closer, nor did he realize why she lingered in the hall until he turned off the light. All he could think about was his escape plan. He had a multitude of houses, not all of which were in his name. He could take her up to his cabin in the mountains, he reasoned. She’d be pissed, but they’d be safe. Rhys wasn’t under house arrest and could be anywhere he liked.

Except, he supposed, with Feyre. 

Semantics. 

He’d take her in the morning, then. Lie and say they’d been compromised, get her off the grid, and continue his courtship until she was in love with him. And then he’d tell her the truth—or, maybe he’d marry her and then tell her the truth of the matter. She’d need to know her last name, after all.

And then it would be too late. Rhys liked that plan enough to get into bed wearing nothing at all. That was how he preferred to sleep though for the last two weeks he’d kept clothes on just in case Feyre climbed into bed with him. It had become glaringly obvious she wasn’t—he was going to have to crawl into hers—and Rhys wanted a good night's sleep before he packed Feyre up into his car and took a trip up the mountains.

He fell asleep to rain and woke to someone standing on the edge of his bed. Thunder crashed overhead, a match for his racing heart. He didn’t think—merely reacted, grabbing the intruder by the shoulders and flipping them to the bed. Rhys had a gun against their temple, thighs pressed tight around their waist to keep them from escaping, before a bolt of lightning illuminated the room.

“Feyre,” Rhys breathed, taking his finger off the trigger. “I thought…fuck.”

“It’s fine,” she said, her eyes bright like moonlight in the dark. “Next time I’ll knock.”

Rhys took a breath, pressing one hand against his naked chest. Naked body—Rhys looked down and found his cock pressed against the thin material of her shirt. Feyre must have known it, too, given the way she was looking firmly at the ceiling. 

“I ah…sorry,” he heard himself saying, sliding off her body with screaming reluctance. 

“It’s okay,” she replied breathlessly. 

Come on, sweetheart. Give me something I can work with. 

Rhys didn’t know what to do and settled for sliding beneath the blanket rather than stand up and let her see the erection he was now sporting. “Did something happen?”

“I ah…it was just a nightmare. I thought…I can go–”

“No!” he exclaimed, his heart racing for an entirely different reason. “No. Stay.”

“Should I take my clothes off, too?” she tried to joke.

“Only if you feel compelled to,” he replied, the words smoother than they felt. Rhys was breathless, too, and half delirious when she slid herself beneath the same blankets he was under. She turned to face him, head propped up on her elbow.

“You keep saying things like that,” she reminded him, a question hiding somewhere in the statement.

“One day you’ll take me up on it,” Rhys replied, unable to stop himself from brushing a strand of thick hair from her face. 

“I don’t think federal agents are supposed to sleep with the people they’re protecting,” Feyre reminded him. As if Rhys would have cared even if he’d been the honorable sort. 

“Who said anything about sleep, Feyre darling?” Rhys asked her, holding her gaze as the storm raged around them. “I can think of a million things I’d like to do to you that have nothing to do with sleep.”

Her breath caught. “Like what?”

Rhys couldn’t help but run his finger over her exposed collarbone. Lightly, he traced it over the lacy fabric, making his way between the valley of her breasts to the waistband of her shorts. “I could show you, if you like?”

Say yes, say yes, say yes, say yes—

“Will you stop if I don’t like it?”

Rhys’s head emptied out, replaced with a violent buzzing. Vision tinged with blood, he whispered, “Has someone not?”

“No,” she replied, easing some of the white hot fury lashing through him. “I just wanted to know.”

“I’ll do whatever you tell me to,” Rhys vowed, wishing she understood the depth of his words. 

Feyre looked up at him with those moonlit eyes. “Show me.”

Oh, thank God. Rhys repositioned himself beside her, reached for her face and then, when he could all but taste her breath, he whispered, “I want to kiss you.” He didn’t give her the opportunity to respond. Rhys needed an answer to the question he’d been asking himself for the last five years—was she worth all this? In his darkest, most frustrated moments, he’d managed to convince himself this was all a mistake. That he ought to let her go and forget the entire thing and instead spend his time getting out of the feds little trap.

But morning always came, reassuring him that this was right. Feyre was his match and Rhys wanted her. Wanted every piece of her. 

He’d wait to fuck her, though his cock screamed in protest the moment the decision was made. Good things came to those who waited, and right now Rhys had the upper hand. 

Fuck, but Feyre tasted better than he’d imagined. Her lips were soft, her mouth minty and she smelled like sugared fruit. He wanted to lick his way down her body until he found himself between her legs where he’d lick some more. 

Rhys threaded his fingers into her hair, angling her head so he could kiss her deeper. His mind had run away with him, undressing her gently in some moments, viciously in others. He wanted to rip her out of her clothes or better still, cut them from her body while teasing her pretty, perfect skin with his blade. 

A little pain, a little pleasure. 

And as he kissed her, tongue sliding along her own, Rhys thought about putting her on his face and letting her suffocate him, taking her pleasure at his expense. He thought about her sinking to her knees, delicate fingers wrapped around the shaft of his cock as she pumped and licked and sucked while he held the wall to keep himself upright.

Feyre moaned, running her hands over his biceps and drawing him out of his fantasies. He had time—a lifetime worth of it—and she was here, willing and pliant in his hands. She was kissing him back, it was her teeth nipping his bottom lip and her fingertips sliding through his hair.

Her parted legs made in offering, her knee touching his thigh. Rhys couldn’t help himself as he slid one hand up her thigh. Higher and higher while Feyre’s kissing slowed, her focus narrowing on what he was doing.

Deciding to stay over her clothes for the moment, Rhys moved his fingers between her legs and rubbed a slow deliberate circle. Do you like that?

Feyre exhaled softly, hips arching ever so slightly. It was Rhys’s turn to moan. “You’re sweet,” he whispered, teeth grazing her jaw. He kept his fingers circling against her clit, using the fabric as light friction. He wanted her desperate enough to forget everything but what she wanted so he could see her undone. Rhys wanted to hear her scream his name, wanted her to know that she belonged to him. 

For Rhys, it had been five years of nothing but his hand and fantasies and all he wanted was to bury himself inside her and fuck her just as long. He was so lost in his fantasies that he didn’t realize where her hand was going as it moved down his chest to his stomach. For all he knew, he was hallucinating her touch at all.

Her fingers curling around the base of his cock were very, very real. If he’d been asleep, that jolt of pleasure would have woken him up. Rhys stuttered out a gasping breath, pulling away to look at her. Feyre’s wicked smile told him everything he needed to know mere moments before her grip tightened and she pumped him in her hand. 

“Move the blanket,” she whispered. Rhys kicked them off violently so Feyre could look at him again. Her eyes moved down his body with appreciation, landing on the cock in her hand. 

“Do you like what you see?” Rhys asked her, nose brushing hers.

“Yes,” she replied, arching into his hands when he brought them to her breasts. “I think I like everything about you.”

Rhys could have come right then and there. 

“Fair is fair, Feyre,” he whispered, kissing a path down her throat. “Take this off and let me look at you.”

Rhys’s whole life narrowed to the moment Feyre leaned up and pulled her tank top over her head. Rhys groaned at the sight of her soft, lean body and the perky breasts heaving in the dark. He could have lost himself right there, fucking himself in the sheets, face buried between them. Rhys needed to focus.

“All of it.”

Feyre arched her hips, hair falling around her beautiful face. She was taunting him, running her finger up and down the waist band while he watched her like a starving animal. Feyre ceded inches at a time, revealing hips first, and then a peak of hair she’d neatly groomed. And then the shorts were on the floor beside her top and she was in his bed.

Naked.

Rhys forgot how to speak for a second, teasing one of her nipples while he stared and stared. Committing, he realized, this moment to memory. Just in case, he reasoned. Maybe they got separated or he had to leave her somewhere to keep her safe. He wanted to be able to come to this moment in his mind and recall it with perfect clarity. 

“Spread your legs for me,” Rhys ordered. Feyre slid a lazy hand down her body, resting her fingers just above her pussy. He could see her from the corner of his eye and that taunting smile as she widened her legs with that same slowness she’d employed when undressing herself.

She was driving him insane. 

“Show me how you like to be touched,” Rhys demanded roughly, taking his cock into his hand while he watched. 

“How about, I’ll show you how I touched myself last night while thinking of you,” she replied in a sultry voice.

Rhys groaned again. “Yeah. Show me that.”

Her fingers brushed over her clit, filling Rhys with the weirdest jealousy. He wanted to be there, could feel the phantom heat even from the space he occupied beside her. That didn’t stop him from sucking in a breath when those same fingers slid into her body, dragging the slickness of her arousal back up to her clit. Feyre exhaled shakily, knees falling wide open so Rhys could watch unimpeded. 

He sat up, still pumping his cock up and down. Feyre touching herself was the most erotic thing he’d ever seen. Rhys forgot what he’d meant to do, lost in the movements until his own arousal began to rise in his throat, threatening to spill all over his hand. She was going to come, too, and Rhys found the idea of not being the one to bring her to completion intolerable. She didn’t need her hands anymore—he’d do it for her, every night if she wanted.

Or, he hoped anyway.

Releasing his own cock, Rhys grabbed her wrists and pinned them over her head. “That’s enough,” he growled, crawling over her body.

“I thought there were other things you wanted to do,” Feyre taunted, arching her hips so her slick pussy slid over the sensitive skin of his cock. Rhys shuddered, nearly abandoning his plan entirely to fuck her.

“Careful,” he warned before sucking roughly at her neck. “Or I’ll fuck that bratty mouth of yours.” Feyre arched into him again. “You could try…but I don’t think you’d fit,” she said, hand sliding down his stomach. 

Fuck he was in love with her.

“I’m sure you’d find a way to make it work,” was all Rhys could think to say. The thought of pulling her off the bed, head dangling, was tempting. He could pull her legs up to him and lick her while she fucking her throat raw. “You’re a clever woman, Feyre.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” she said, tugging at the strands of his hair.

“Wouldn’t I?” he replied, licking down the column of her throat. “I think you’d like the things I’d dare to do.”

“I’m a lady—”

“You’re a nightmare,” Rhys disagreed, sucking one of her nipples between his lips. “My fucking nightmare.”

She chuckled, unaware of the truth. Right then, though, Feyre was everything. Angel, devil, nightmare, daydream. There was no going back now, no reversing what had begun. As Rhys continued his slow descent down her squirming body, he was resolved in his course of action. There was nothing that would keep him from her. No cell, no grave—nothing. 

Feyre was already slick with arousal, her pussy swollen and pink even in the dark. Rhys spread her apart to look, meeting her gaze from his spot between her legs. 

“What about you?” Feyre whispered, grabbing him by his hair and pulling rough. Rhys’s hips ground into the mattress involuntarily, responding to the force she’d used. 

“What about me?” he replied. If he had to fuck his hand in the bathroom again, that seemed reasonable enough. His cock would be wet soon enough.

“I want to taste you,” she whispered and just like that, Rhys had her halfway off the bed just like he’d imagined. There were more elegant ways to do this—ways that prioritized her pleasure, that were likely more comfortable if nothing else.

But he wanted her like this. After five years of waiting, Rhys thought he deserved to have her however he liked so long as she didn’t object. “Open your mouth, darling,” he murmured, looking down at her head hanging off the edge of the bed. She was eye level with his cock—all she had to do was open and Rhys would be inside.

“Rhys—”

“Trust me,” he murmured, vowing he wouldn’t hurt her. Not unless she asked him to, anyway. While he waited, Rhys leaned over, adjusting his weight and spreading his legs ever so slightly, so he could lick a path down her navel. “I’ll take care of you.”

He meant it literally, but he understood how she might have thought he meant in the moment. Truthfully, Rhys was too distracted by the pussy in his face to bother clarifying it for her. He could smell her and needed to taste her. For one glorious moment, Rhys forgot everything else. Gripping her by her ass to half lift her in the air, Rhys licked the length of her while Feyre gasped, pushing up so she was closer to him. Rhys licked again, forgetting he’d intended to edge her for hours.

Ah, well.

There would be other nights, he supposed. It was strange to realize he could have all the things he wanted. Or, at least have all the things he wanted with her. That was enough to convince him to keep going until she made a mess of his face.

He’d forgotten his cock until he felt her swallow it. She managed a good third before she gagged slightly and her hand began trying to make up the difference. 

“Good girl,” he gasped against her leg. “You can take me.”

He was in hell—her mouth was wet and warm, a tease of what would happen when he was buried inside her. Rhys pushed a little, testing how much she could take without work. He managed about half before she slapped his thigh, teeth lightly grazing his shaft in punishment. Fine, he thought. Anything was better than nothing, truthfully, and he was grateful she let him put his cock near her face at all. 

Rhys returned to his licking, desperate to get her off before he lost control of himself. He was punishingly close already and desperate to mark her in some invisible way. Like an animal, he wanted the rest of the world to know she’d been claimed and to stay away from her, regardless if it was right or not. 

It was tempting to pull himself off her and demand to know where she’d learned to suck cock like that. To force her to give him a list so he could track them all down one by one and punish them for touching his wife. Rhys might have, too, had he not been so desperate to get her off. Feyre squirmed, moaning around the cock she still had buried in her throat. It was too much—Rhys couldn’t think his way out of his impending orgasm. He should have masturbated before he went to bed just to take the edge off. She was going to think he was quick. 

“Feyre,” he panted against her, legs shaking with effort. Rhys redoubled his efforts, kissing and sucking until Feyre’s determined rhythm stuttered. And though his cock screamed in protest, his balls so tight he thought he might explode, Rhys kept at her until Feyre came, still gagged by his cock. She managed one suck, panting and moaning around him and that was all it took.

Rhys came down her throat, forgetting he’d intended to come on her face.

This was better, he thought, face pressed to her thigh as he bit at her flesh. Neither of them moved, still riding out the wave of pleasure rocking through them. He wanted to know how she felt—did the world seem different to her, now? It felt different to Rhys.

Carefully, he knelt beside the bed where Feyre still hung, her hair a waterfall around her. “That was…” he murmured, sitting with his back against the frame so he could kiss her cheek, “incredible.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, pressing her forehead to his shoulder. “Really good.”

“Stay with me tonight,” he asked impulsively. He just wanted her near. Feyre nodded, leaning up as Rhys crawled back into the bed. He swore he meant to have her again, that he was only going to close his eyes for a moment. 

Rhys passed out, and when he woke, the bed was empty again. For once, Feyre had beaten him awake. Rhys didn’t mind. He took his time, showering and dressing himself while replaying the night before. Somehow he doubted that Feyre had made breakfast, but maybe he’d get lucky and she’d offer herself up to him.

Rhys made his way down the stairs where Feyre waited in another oversized t-shirt and a pair of tight leggings. She’d braided her thick hair over her shoulder again… and she was staring at his computer with those moonlit eyes he loved so much.

“Good morning, Feyre darling,” Rhys said, assuming the game was up. He should have known better than to leave his computer up and accessed so easily…but what did he care, truly, if she looked? He’d show her everything if she asked. 

Feyre stood as Rhys made his way to the kitchen, pouring coffee as the hammer clicked back on a gun. 

“You,” she said, her voice trembling ever so slightly. 

“Me,” he agreed, positive she wouldn’t shoot him. Why wait, he reasoned? She could have shot him in her sleep if she’d wanted, but she hadn’t. She’d waited for him to come downstairs and explain himself and that was progress.

“You lied to me.”

Had he? Rhys couldn’t recall a time he’d been overtly dishonest. “You drew your own conclusions,” Rhys reminded her, turning as he blew steam from his mug. “I never lied to you. I told you who I was the day we met.”

“You—you let me think…” she stood, still pointing her weapon at him. “Did you kill Tamlin?”

“You asked me to, remember?”

“Because you said…oh my god…you said…”

Rhys was grinning. “He was keeping you from me.”

“So you killed him for doing his job?” she demanded.

Rhys smiled. “Oh, darling, I killed him because he touched my wife—”

“I’m not your wife!” she declared. Rhys finished his sip, setting his mug to the counter. As he walked toward her, Feyre backed up until she was pressed against a wall. She held that gun, even when Rhys took her hands in his and pressed the barrel firm against his chest.

“You are,” he replied, holding her gaze. “And if you’d come to me for help, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“I didn’t want your help,” she whispered. 

“No? Did you ever think that I could have paid someone to look at your story closer? To really examine that bat? I’ve kept you out of prison, Feyre.”

“You’re the reason he’s dead in the first place.”

Rhys had to resist rolling his eyes. “Shoot me then, Feyre. Pull the trigger and end this.”

They stared at each other for a beat—long enough for her to hesitate, and longer still for Rhys to yank it from her hands before hauling her over his shoulder. 

“We can unpack your shitty childhood later,” Rhys informed her as she kicked at the air. “For now, it’s time to go.”

“Go where?”

Rhys sighed with delight, thinking of his cabin and the time alone they’d have together. 

“Home.”