#a real “this is your brain on drugs” moment

[karmacat107]

kiss a star

[clumsyclifford]

x

[persephoneflouwers]

-

[sanguineterrain]

in the buff | jason todd

Summary: The one where you learn firsthand that Jason Todd sleeps in the nude.

Pairing: Jason Todd x gn!reader 

Word count: 2.7k

Warnings/tags: best friend jason, awkwardness, nudity, reader hardcore thirsting over jaytodd, love confessions, humor (attempts at it, anyway), silliness. inspired by this post!

the divider

There's been a huge (blessed) development in the drug ring case that you and Jason are working on. You can hardly sleep now.

Normally, you'd call or text Jason, even though he's usually already in the know. It's possible that you just like having an excuse to call him, but who can confirm such a thing?

But it's late, probably too late to call, considering Jason doesn't answer his phone unless it's pinged directly to his helmet after a certain time, courtesy of his family being "a buncha jackasses" (his words, obviously).

But maybe it's not too late for a visit. After all, Jason patrols late, and has insane insomnia. He very well could be awake at this late hour. And he's never minded you dropping by before.

In truth, you haven't seen Jason in a few days and you feel restless now when you go longer than a day without seeing each other. You're not quite sure why that is.

So here you are, disabling the window alarm on Jason's apartment. Partly for a case, partly for your own benefit.

It takes a few minutes but you manage to open the window without anyone calling the police or whacking you with a broom. You slide open the window mostly soundlessly. Then you wait. The room remains dark and quiet.

You're pretty proud of yourself actually. It's not that you're green when it comes to spycraft, but you're certainly no Batman.

Still, you've managed to sneak into Jason's apartment without waking him. The Red Hood. You peek in to check if he's really asleep.

And he is, dark hair stark against the white pillow. It sticks out in messy tufts. You can't see past Jason's neck and his freckled arms, illuminated by the orange streetlight outside. You put your laptop bag on the floor.

He's sleeping on his stomach, facing away from you, but you're very endeared by how he's curled up under his sheet, hands tucked under his pillow. If you went really close to his face, you could count his eyelashes. Jason has such pretty eyelashes.

That's a perfectly normal thought to have about your best friend, right? Boys have pretty eyelashes. You're just making an observation.

You're bewildered by how cold the room is, surprised that Jason can withstand such a temperature. Maybe it's a Pit thing.

You watch him for a moment longer. Guilt pools in your gut. Are you really going to wake him when he's probably just gone to bed in the last hour? It takes Jason so long to fall asleep, you know that.

...

No, you should let him sleep. You can work on the case in the morning.

You bend down to get your laptop bag. In that time, the light flicks on.

You flinch, turn around, and find yourself staring down the barrel of a gun.

Said gun is held by an extremely naked Jason Todd.

"Oh my God!" you say at the same time Jason realizes his mistake.

"What the fuck!" he shouts, grabbing a pillow to cover himself.

But not before you get an eyeful of your best friend's, er, weaponry.

"Why are you naked?" you shout, gaze darting everywhere. Good Lord, it's seared into your retinas. You're never getting the image of Jason's dick out of your brain.

"Why are you in my apartment?" Jason snaps back.

"No, my question is way more urgent," you say.

"No the hell it's not! You broke in! I'm allowed to be naked in my apartment!"

"Okay. Alright. I came because there's been a development in our case. I thought we could work on it together but when I realized you were asleep for real, I decided to leave."

Jason rolls his eyes. "You know I'm a light sleeper. I just went to bed. I was up late.”

Realization strikes you. Could it be...?

"Oh my God. Do you have someone here?" you ask, voice sinking to a whisper.

"I have you here," Jason says irritably.

"No, like—" You make a hole with one hand and stick a finger into it. "Y'know..."

"Jesus, no!" Jason's face twists in disgust. "C'mon!"

"Okay, chill out, Jay-Jay. It'd be fine if you did. I can keep a secret," you say, shrugging. People have sex. You know that. You've never thought about Jason having sex, but you suppose it's possible. Why not? Just because you've never had sex and you always hoped that Jason would be your first doesn't mean that he would. If he's moved on in his life, then you should too.

Jason scoffs. "Yeah, okay. You think anybody would get into bed with a headcase like me?"

Hope rekindles. You're not behind. Jason's right there with you, virginity firmly intact.

He puts the safety back on the gun, squishing the pillow against himself with his elbow. You watch in fascination at his multitasking. Jason starts to turn around to put the gun behind the headboard before clearly thinking twice about mooning you.

"So... why are you naked?" you ask, respectfully keeping your eyes north of the equator.

"If you must know, I sleep in the nude. Now turn around."

You don't turn around. "In the nude?"

Jason's eye twitches. "Yes, nude. It's better for your body and it's more comfortable and I don't—"

You pull a face. "Who says in the nude? How old are you, a hundred?"

"That's what you're harping on?" Jason asks. "You broke into my apartment!"

You hold up a finger. "I didn't break in, I disarmed the alarm like you taught me."

"Yeah, which was only for emergencies. This isn't an emergency. Now turn around!"

So you turn around. You hear the pillow fall and the image returns. You recite the alphabet backwards. When that doesn't work, you think about the time you helped Jason on a mission in the sewers and couldn't get the smell out of your suit for a week.

Yeah, that'll do it. You shudder.

"Can't believe you just broke in," he mumbles. "Raised in a fuckin' barn, swear to God."

"Okay, I'm sorry. I'm truly, honestly sorry, Jaybee. From the bottom of my heart. Can I look now?"

"If you dare."

"Are you decent?" you ask.

"Too easy of a joke," he says. "Yeah, the jewels are covered."

You turn slowly. Jason's got red (ha) boxers on, so you turn all the way.

Huh. Well.

You've never really thought much about what Jason's got going on underneath his armor. Certainly, you've assumed that he's got a good physique and a lot of stamina, considering what he does. You've always assumed that. But Jason's Jason. Your best friend, Jason. Your best friend, Jason, who came back really tall, yeah, and with a deep voice and a super pretty face...

Well, anyway. He's Jason. That's all.

But now? Now you get to look in depth, and... whoa.

Jason's broad, stocky, heavily muscled with a soft layer of fat on top. His arms are huge, hands proportionally big. His pecs are full with pink nipples the same shade as his lips. That's a fact you're never forgetting. Your belly flutters.

Okay, what the fuck! No. This is peak creepy behavior, leering at your best friend like this, even if he does have shoulders you could sink your teeth into and thighs you'd happily get crushed between. No! Bad.

...You look some more. He's covered in scars. This is the first time you've seen his autopsy scar in person. It's white, noticeable but healed, like most of his scars. There's a dusting of dark hair from his chest to his belly button. It thickens as it dips beneath his—

Mm, nope. Not thinking about that again.

"Hello-o."

Your eyes dart back to his face.

"Are you listening to me?" he asks, forehead crinkled.

"What? Yes. Sorry. Yes." Your cheeks burn.

Something crosses Jason's face, too quick for you to read. But then his expression stones over. He glances at the dresser across from the bed.

"If you gimme a sec, I'll put a shirt on so y'won't have to look at all this," he says, gesturing roughly to his body.

You blink, lost in Jasonland. "Huh?"

"I know the scars are pretty gnarly. Lemme find a shirt."

Jason goes to the dresser and digs through the top drawer. His wide back is strung tight with tension, you can tell. You hurry to him, blocking the drawer with your arm. Jason looks at you, brows rising.

"Can I help you?" he asks.

"Um."

Words. You remember words, don't you?

"You..."

You haven't been physically close to Jason in a long time. He smells like soap and detergent and is all-encompassing. Your brain feels like slush. Don't stare at his pecs.

"I didn't—I'm not grossed out by your scars, Jason," you finally manage to say.

Jason raises an eyebrow. "Sure. You're just grossed out by everything else about me." He sighs wearily, like he's practiced this speech every night in the mirror. "Look, it's fine. I know I'm really—"

"No, it's not fine! I can't bear having you think I'm repulsed by your body, Jason. That's just not true," you say.

"Well, you were starin' pretty hard, so—"

"But it wasn't—I wasn't staring in disgust, I was—I..."

Jason crosses his arms. His pecs are pushed up as he does so. His stomach looks so soft. But you know he's strong. Way stronger than you. Strong enough to wield his strength against you, if you wanted him to. Strong enough to be gentle with you, too.

You wonder if he's still ticklish.

"You're doin' it again!" Jason says, and this time he really does look hurt. Fuck. Fuck! You're a shitty best friend.

"No!" You lock eyes with him. "No, no! I mean, yes, I was looking at you. But I wasn't looking in a bad, judgy way. I was, uh, taking in your physique. Because you have a... a very nice body. I've never seen you without clothes so I was looking at you. Sorry."

Yeah, you'll just go die in a hole after this.

Jason squints at you for a long moment. You start to shift in place. Sweat beads on your forehead. You lick your lips, hoping Jason can hear your honesty.

"Are you messin' with me?"

"Huh?" You shake your head. "No, why would I—"

"You're really telling me that you find this," Jason gestures to his body, "Good looking?"

This is worse than any physical torture. You'd prefer Batman beating you up on a roof to being here.

You rub your temple, cheeks aflame. "Oh my God. Yes, Jason, you're a good looking guy. Can we move on?"

"No, 'cause I think you're lyin', and I don't like it. You're always honest with me."

"I am being honest," you say, suddenly more annoyed than anything. Because what the fuck? "Are you kidding me? There's a whole forum dedicated to the Red Hood and how much people want you to step on them. And that's without seeing your face! I have eyes, Jason, of course I find you attractive."

And that should be the end of it. Jason's already slack-jawed like a dead fish. But no, you keep going.

"You make me nervous and I thought I had a lid on it because we knew each other as kids but it's becoming clear that I very much don't, and that probably has to do with the fact that you're the only guy I've been close to, and I never got over you. And now I'm gonna go drown myself in the Hudson. Good night."

You go to slip out the window. Maybe it'll shut on your head and knock you out. That would be a divine gift.

It doesn't, though. The universe isn't so kind. Instead, Jason catches your arm and keeps you rooted to your spot. His hand is cold. You wonder if the rest of him is warm.

"Wait, wait. Just hang on."

You groan. "Dude, I'm fucking mortified over the last five minutes. Please let me keep some of my dignity," you say without looking at him.

"Now when have I ever done that?" You can hear the smile in his voice.

And suddenly, the miserable reality of never being more than friends with Jason Todd comes crashing down. It's too late. You've always been too late.

You sag in his grip.

"We can just forget this ever happened," you say quietly. "Chalk it up to idiocy."

"Mm, yeah, we could. 'Cept I don't think you're an idiot. And I want you to hear what I have t'say first. Will ya look at me?"

Mopily, you look at him. His hand drops.

"I—"

"You've never slept naked," you say before he can get a word out. "That's new. Otherwise, I would've known, and then I would've used the door."

Jason rolls his eyes. "Can I speak?"

You cross your arms. "Yeah, okay."

"First of all, I don't think it's necessary for me to disclose that I sleep in the nude." You open your mouth to argue. "But I know it was a mistake. I'm not mad about that. Okay?"

You nod. "Okay."

"I won't lie and say I'm not surprised at your... reaction. I don't really... I've never... I'm not Dick or Bruce, y'know? I wasn't told my whole life what a handsome boy I am. And dying and returning didn't really help with that stuff either."

"I think you're handsome, Jason," you say quietly. "Honest."

He coughs and looks away, a tiny blush on his cheeks. "Yeah, uh, think you've made that pretty clear. For the record, I think you're really beautiful. Always thought so."

Your eyes widen. "Really?"

"Well, yeah. I mean... yeah."

"You're just saying that 'cause I saw your vein cane," you say, grinning.

"Don't call it that."

"How about—"

"No."

You're both quiet.

"How 'bout pork swor—"

"No!"

You smile, eyes squinty. Jason glares.

"Don't nickname my thing," he says.

You nod solemnly. "You're right. It's your thing. You should choose its name."

He shakes his head. "Sucha weirdo."

"Hey, I've never been with a guy. I don't know the rules of thing-naming."

Jason tilts his head. "Never?"

"Never."

"Why?"

You shrug. "Never found anyone I liked enough, I guess. I've pretty much had my heart set on you, Jason."

His face softens. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"Well, uh, me too," he says. "You're it for me, honey. I just never... I mean, really, I never thought it would actually happen with you. Not then, not now."

"Huh. You really should've flashed me earlier. We could've sped things up exponentially."

"Yeah, why didn't I think of that," Jason says dryly.

"Dunno! We all know you're more than a pretty face."

His face reddens. You grin.

"Are you shy?" you ask, dancing on your toes.

"No. Shut up."

"You're shy! I make Jason Todd shy! Oh, this is wonderful. I should break into your apartment regularly."

"It's just new for me!" he says. "Lea' me alone."

You cozy up to him, confidence renewed by the mutual confession. You wrap your arms around his neck. Jason looks at you, hands slowly coming to rest on your waist. The rest of him is warm.

"Just teasing you, Jaybee," you say.

"Hmm." He slowly nudges your cheek with his nose. "Like y'always do?"

"Like I always do," you say sweetly. "But for the record, if we ever share a bed in the future, you're gonna have to keep the soldier in his tent."

Jason lets go of you, exasperated. "Oh, for—y'know what? Your visitation privileges are revoked. Get outta my apartment."

You put on the saddest face you can muster. "You're kicking me out? Into the cold?"

"It's eighty degrees."

You sigh loudly. "Okay, fine. Date tomorrow?"

"Seriously?" Jason asks, sounding genuinely surprised.

"Seriously! Why wouldn't I be serious?"

"You really wanna date me?"

"Never been more sure of anything in my life."

Jason's relief is palpable and bittersweet. You'll spend the rest of your days letting him know just how spectacular he and his pectorals are.

"Okay," he says, shy again. You don't tease him this time.

"Great!" You close the distance between you and peck him on the cheek. His blinks in surprise.

"I'll give you a proper kiss on our date," you say, winking. "Bye, Jasey-Daisy."

"Bye, honey. Don't break into anyone else's apartment on your way home."

"Never," you say, climbing out the window. "You're the only one for me, Toddy!"

[burningembers91]

Sleeping With the Enemy - Hwang Jun-Ho x Fem!Reader (NSFW)

Synopsis: tasked with taking down the most ruthless gangster in Seoul, Hwang Jun-Ho didn’t know he’d fall for his target’s wife in the process.

Please note that this storyline will deal with situations depicting domestic violence.

A/N: Did I come up with this idea at 1am when I couldn’t sleep? Yes. Did I also get up at 5am to write it as it was etched into my brain? Yes. Am I very tired? Also, yes. But this storyline is gonna be juicy as heck.

It was you who called the police. You, who in your wedding vows had sworn to love and protect you husband, just has he had sworn the same. He hadn’t bothered to keep his promise though, so why should you? The man you married was a ruthless tyrant, taking whatever he wanted with little regard for the devastation his actions caused. The police had been after him for years, desperate to catch the ruthless gangster who tormented the good people of Seoul. You’d be so young when you married him, swept up in the glitz and glamour of the high life he showed you. He’d promised you the world; you just hadn’t realised it would come at a cost.

You weren’t sure you’d ever loved your husband, and you knew he’d never loved you. You were an accessory on his arm, something necessary to bring along to meetings and parties, adorning you in the highest quality clothes and shoes for his colleagues and competitors to admire. He’d started hitting you shortly after your wedding, started showing his real colours when he was confident you couldn’t escape. You’d spent years cowering in his shadow, meekly accepting the designer gifts he bestowed upon you as an apology for treating you like dirt. You weren’t living anymore; you were simply existing.

Hwang Jun-Ho was assigned to your case, tasked with keeping the beautiful wife of the city’s most dangerous gangster safe. He’d been warned that you couldn’t be trusted; that this whole thing could be nothing more than a ploy to send the police off chasing their tails. But Jun-Ho knew from the moment he met you that you weren’t doing your husband’s bidding. You were stunning, dressed in Dior, Prada and dripping in Cartier diamonds. But those high end brands couldn’t mask the fear in your eyes. Just like the makeup couldn’t mask the bruises on your face. At first, he’d been sure this case would be the one he needed to skyrocket him to greater things. But one meeting with you and the boost this would give to his career was no longer his priority; you were. He’d been in this job for long enough that not much fazed him, but your stories had kept him up at night. Tales of your husband’s beatings, his drug deals, his human trafficking, Jun-Ho wondered how you’d endured it all. How you’d kept your wits and sanity while married to the devil himself.

He tried to keep things professional, tried to keep a distance, but you pulled him in like a moth to a flame. You were so fragile and yet so strong, so beautiful, so meek yet so brimming with confidence that it floored him every time. You’d meet in secret, when your husband was out of town on business, slowly giving Jun-Ho the evidence he needed to bring down the man you’d pledged your life to.

It was after your fourth meeting that he fucked you in the back of his car, your moans like the sweetest music to his ears as his took you on the leather seats. From that moment on, Jun-Ho knew there was no going back; he was hooked on you. From that moment on, you would meet each week, exchange information and then make love in his apartment. You smelled like Chanel No.5, and it permeated his bedsheets, keeping him company on the long nights without you. Your lipstick left stains on his skin, marking its way down his chest and thighs. The sound of your breathy moans were permanently etched on his brain, going round and round his head like the most beautiful broken record.

He wasn’t sure when infatuation turned into love. All he knew is that he would do anything for you. He would die for you if it would keep you safe. You were both under no illusion that you were playing a risky game, one that you were almost certain wouldn’t end well.

But for the first time in your life, you could confidently say you knew what love was. Jun-Ho showed you affection and care you’d only ever dreamt of. He made you laugh, made you feel safe, and when his lips explored your body, he made your toes curls in the most exquisite way imaginable.

Yes, you knew this wouldn’t end well. Your husband was not a man who forgave and forgot. But Jun-Ho was determined to keep you safe. He would find a way to break you free of the chains the devil had ensnared you in. He’d find a way to protect you from the man who kept you in constant fear. He didn’t know how this would end, but he knew that he would risk it all for you.

[gh0stsp1d3r]

-GUN TO YOUR HEAD…

MDNI | DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT

Warnings: gun play, dark!rafe, blowjobs, gun to head, drug use (cocaine), use of the words “bitch, idiot”, dubcon

I don’t condone any of this in real life. this is PURELY a work of fiction and is not meant to be taken seriously. consent is key <3

He had been tired of your constant whining and complaining the whole day. As soon as you both stepped into the house, his eyes darkened and you could tell he was being serious when he reached into his waistband and the gun you knew was tucked in it.

You swallowed, thinking the words “rafe wouldn’t do anything to hurt me.” Over and over to yourself. He glanced down at it, holding it in his hands.

“Stop your crying.” He told you with a scoff. “Get in the fucking room.” He nodded his head towards the door, you quickly nodding again, scrambling to the room as quickly as possible, tearing off your shoes as you sat on the bed, your leg bouncing up and down while you desperately tried to wipe your tears off with the back of your hand.

You swallowed again when you stood in front of him, looking down bashfully at the floor underneath you. You watched as he walked in, grabbing out something from his drawer, before hearing him snort a line on his dresser, him throwing his head back with a sigh.

“Get on your knees.” His voice was a murmur, but it was held with authority, you obeying as quickly as possible.

“Can’t take your fucking… constant nagging anymore. Rafe, I wanna go home. Rafe, this is bad. Rafe don’t do that!” He mocked you with a scoff, pacing in front of you for a moment before stopping.

He stood in front of you, you still looking at the ground. “Look at me when I talk to you!” He shouted, you jumping and flinching as the words vibrated off the walls, you looking up at him now, your eyes pleading with him.

He sighed heavily, looking at the gun in his hands. He thought for a moment, before he put it of the side of your head.

“Rafe-“.

“Shut up.”

“Rafe- I’m- I’m- I’m- sorry- I’m sorry-“ you were hyperventilating at this point.

“I said shut up!”

You continued staring up at him with fear and confusion in your eyes, not knowing what to say or do at this point.

“God- fucking idiot-“ he murmured to himself, although you heard it. “Do I need to give you step by step instructions? Suck my dick.” He said in a demeaning voice.

You listened and obeyed, your hands fumbling with his zipper, before pulling his cock out of the confines of his pants and boxers.

He sighed in relief when you finally put your mouth to the tip of his aching, red cock, the hand that was on the gun relaxing slightly. You didn’t waste a second, not wanting to anger him any more.

His other hand made its way to the back of your head, setting a faster pace. You made a noise of surprise, grabbing onto his thighs, digging your nails into them as he shoved your entire mouth down on his cock. You had spit dripping down your mouth and mascara running down your face, but he didn’t seem to care.

He chuckled harshly, “don’t cry.” He mocked with a pout, you slobbering all on his cock while he spoke down to you. “This is what happens when you’re a fucking bitch all day, baby.” He shoved you down even further, until your face was stuffed in his pubic hair, him laughing at your struggles to breathe.

He pulled you back off of his cock, giving you time for some air. You coughed and spluttered, your throat thoroughly bruised. He leaned down to speak in your ear, a chilling threat that hung in the air even when he left the room to go start a bath for you. Because despite everything, he still loved you. A sick, twisted part of him did.

“You’re lucky I don’t blow your brains out right fucking now.”

When he left, you noticed the bullets laying across the room. The gun had been empty the whole time.

[zyafics]

PLAY FAKE | 04

MASTERLIST (Series)

Pairing — Rafe Cameron x Female Reader .ᐟ

Summary — When Rafe needs to secure a girlfriend for his father to see him as a viable candidate for Cameron Development, he enlists the help of a bartender who wants nothing to do with him.

Content — 18+, smut, angst, depictions of jealousy + aggression, emotional turmoil, mild descriptions of violence, and usage of drugs.

Dedication — for @rivaiken, iykyk! <3

The next couple of days have been radio silence. You don't try to communicate with Rafe and he doesn't try to communicate with you. You just throw yourself into your work, scolding to yourself how this was such a bad idea.

It wasn't meant to be a fuck relationship. It was meant to be fake. Nothing more than public displays of affection and going on to ignore each other behind the scenes. Rafe, himself, said that he wanted to continue doing all the shit he's doing now, just with you as a shielded layer of protection against his father.

Whenever you think back to that moment in the country club bathroom, your stomach recoils. Not because of the sex, but because of how willing you are. You always saw yourself as an independent person. Someone who can handle your own needs. You had to be; you grew up with no parental guidance and raised two younger sisters. You take care of people, you think of others. You handle everything yourself.

But you remember you were deep on your knees, ready to give him anything; when you were splay against the counter, begging him to make you come. God, you feel embarrassed by your own desire.

Maybe it's the control. Maybe it's because you're so used to it in the real world, for once, you want to give the reins to someone else. Especially in the bedroom. And Rafe perfectly takes it.

The only problem is he doesn't give it back.

Asshole.

You're behind the counter, telling Miranda about the new backlog of orders that the system hasn't placed, and a spill in one of the corners, when the bell rings, signaling the entrance of another customer.

"I'll be right with you!" You shout over your shoulders, quickly summarizing the last of the tasks for Miranda before turning to the new customer who walked in.

You plastered on your service smile, ready to take their orders.

Only to realize it was Rafe.

Your smile drops.

"What do you want, Rafe?" You ask pointedly, setting the towel down on the counter as he slides into the seat before you, a casual demeanor to his own presence.

"I need you to play the part again." He says, without so much as an apology or acknowledgement to what happened the other night. "It worked. My dad likes you."

"That's great," your voice is empty of emotions. "Are you coming here to tell me about what a perfect plan you made?"

"No," he shakes his head. "I need you to attend a party with me."

"Business?"

"No, at my house."

Your answer is immediate. "No," you say, shaking your head. "Can't make it."

"You don't even know what it is about."

"Let me guess," you cross your arms, pretending to ponder. "Your dad trusts you enough with me, so if he sees you and me at your party, he would assume I'll be able to control you and you won't push yourself over the edge?"

His reply is silent. That's how you know you're right.

"Guess my Pogue brain caught up fast enough."

You turn around to grab a small glass, pouring out a shot of tequila on the table before tipping your head backwards and taking it all in without a chaser. You need it for whatever this conservation is about to go. "I won't be able to go. I have a double shift."

"I haven't told you the day yet."

"I have double shifts all week," you declare sharply, the bitter taste burning your throat. You squint your eyes for a moment, readjusting, before you find his gaze again.

"I'll pay you."

"God, is this party that important?" You huff out of astonishment at his persistence. "The answer is still no. I don't want your money."

Rafe's brows furrow together. He doesn't understand why you're acting so cold to him. He came in with a good proposition; you wouldn't have to do any of those silly dinners with his father, all you had to do was make an appearance at a party long enough to satiate Ward and then you can do whatever the hell you want. Why are you being so difficult?

"What the fuck is your problem? Why do you have such an attitude?"

You laugh, abruptly, because this is so ironic and humorous to you that the sound rips out. The reckless prince, the man who received a collegiate degree from UNC Chapel Hill doesn't know what a Pogue is thinking.

You don't answer him, deciding to take one of the tasks off of Miranda's hands and clean up the spill yourself. It’s better than being cornered by Rafe. You move to the other side of the counter for the flip-door exit, stepping out from behind the booth.

Heading to the back to grab the supplies, Rafe follows you. Once you step into the backdoor, grabbing the mop, he slips in behind you, blocking the exit.

"You gonna talk or just avoid me all day again?"

You scoff. "That's rich coming from you."

His forehead wrinkles. He truly doesn't know. "What the fuck are you goin' on about?"

Having enough, you throw your arms out in frustration. "I'm talking about the fact that you're the one who fucked me in a bathroom after some problem with your dad," you snap, lashing out from all your pent-up anger. "You refused to talk to me. All you did was used me as your fucking toy."

He staggers back for a moment. Before a cruel smile appears on his lips.

"I remember you were begging for it."

You slap him.

It was so unprecedented, without thought, that it shocked the both of you. The next few seconds were quiet, too quiet, like it was a live wire waiting to spark.

Your voice is calm, almost deadly. "I want you to leave."

His anger comes back tenfold. It's almost a match made in hell; how your rage matches his, how he doesn't back down—but neither do you.

You were going to drive each other insane.

And some sick part of you liked it.

"When have I ever fucking talked to you, Pogue?" He snaps back with dark fury. "We're barely even friends. If I want to fuck you, and you let me, I'm taking it."

"Whenever you had a problem with your dad, you came to me, in this bar," you gesture out to the door. "You talked. I listened. That was the deal."

"We never said that in our relationship."

"Well, I'm putting it in," you declare. Approaching him, stepping a foot closer to close in the distance between the two of you. He doesn't move. He doesn't waver. He watches your step with heavy breathes, dark eyes. In a low breath, you warn, "you want to fuck other people? Fine. I don't care. You do that. They aren't the ones sticking with you, helping you with your dad. They don't have to carry the weight of you being you."

You know the last line was a hard hit, but it was true. You were tired of being seen as another Pogue, someone on the bottom of the litter meant to be used and thrown away. You need to make your stance firm.

"But if you want to fuck me," you conclude, pointing to yourself, "you talk to me, first."

He says nothing. Your anger is filling your adrenaline. It could also be the tequila. Whatever it is, you don't know what provoked you to say the next sentence.

"I wasn't on the pill, goddammit."

For a moment, sobriety reigns over Rafe's features. His eyes widened. "Did you—"

"I bought a Plan B, you asshole." You cut him off, not wanting him to think you're too stupid to think of the consequences. You knew. That's why you told him to pull out. "I wasn't going to carry your babies in me. But, it was expensive. Do you know how much that cost out of my paycheck?"

To him, that may seem like nothing. Nothing more than scraps rolling around his room, in his pockets that he could spare. But for you? That's money that could've gone to paying off your debt, to helping Sailor, to taking care of your siblings.

He remains silent.

You continue.

"You cover for me however you want. You host that party if you want to so fucking badly. But I can't do it. I have work."

You push past Rafe and he lets you, grabbing the mop out of the corner and stepping back into the open atmosphere of your bar. You may hate the noise that comes from the place, but it was better than being suffocated in a room with him.

Rafe quietly follows after you after you return behind the counter.

He looked like he wanted to say something more, but his words were not coming out. His gaze flicks to you, jaw clenched.

"I... I didn't know," his voice is a whisper, almost indistinguishable, that you can't help but let out a bitter chuckle.

"Yeah," you agree. "Because you refused to talk to me."

He says nothing, muted by his own anger, looking down at his hands, before he walks out of the bar. He doesn't bid farewell and you don't expect him to. All you know is he's going to get shit-faced soon and you had nothing to do with it.

—

As you are helping your little sister with her math homework—where all her struggles were about multiplication tables and recognizing whether a fraction is improper—you miss the early days of your life. Where you don't have to think about anything else.

About the bills. About the loans. About how to take care of your siblings.

About a stupid Kook prince you can't get out of your mind.

Your baby sister is seated on the couch, reading some children's book that you made a couple of years ago, stringed together with yarns and colored pencils. Her delicate voice echoes through the joint living room, sounding out the words on her own as she heard you read them million of times before.

Your sister, Amara, pulls you back to reality as she taps your arm, pointing to her problem on the kitchen counter that she's struggling with. She points to the question, reciting her logic of how she got there, and you return with praising her thought process but reminding her of her multiplication tables.

"Ohhhh," her voice drags, giggling at the realization. "I see."

You chuckle softly, laying your chin on her small shoulder and picking up your phone off the counter. While she fixes her mistake, you scroll through social media.

A notification flashes at the top of your screen.

topperthornton: hey

Why the fuck is another Kook sliding into your DMs?

you: hello?

He quickly responds, asking if you are your name.

you: why?

topperthornton: idk if u know but rafe is hosting a party tn

you: so i heard

topperthornton: well, you should come

you: i don't think so, white boy

topperthornton: it's rafe.. he's asking about u

Something in your chest sputters. You pretend it's not your heart.

you: ?? for what

You hope you didn't come off too eager. You don't want to be. You should be pissed, goddammit, but something about knowing Rafe, drunk right now, is thinking about you, makes you weak.

You hate it.

topperthornton: idk what happened between the two of u but he's drunk and crossed out of his mind and he's just been rambling about u

You stare at the text for a hot minute, before another one follows.

topperthornton: u need to come immediately

Fucking hell.

You know you shouldn’t. You just came out of a long, tiresome shift. You have siblings to take care of. You have a math problem that has yet been corrected. But, something in your chest caves. The idea that Rafe needs help, that he's asking for you specifically, and you aren't coming? Makes you uneasy. 

You have to go.

There's no other way around it.

Scrambling, you pull your Amara off your lap as you run out the door and race down the block. When you stop in front of Pope's house, you pound your fist against the door, praying someone is home.

It's Pope.

"Hey," he greets. "What's up?"

"I know this is last minute but I need you to watch the kids," you announce breathlessly. His eyes follow you, concerned.

"Everything okay?"

"It's fine," you wave off. "I just have to go somewhere and I don't know how long I'll be. Amara is doing her math homework and Leilani is just reading a book. They're really sweet, I promise."

Pope laughs you off casually. "I know," he says with a smile. "I've babysat them before."

"So," you string the words together slowly, hoping your anxiety isn't coming off too strong. You don't want Pope to feel obligated. "Can you... do it?"

He nods. "Of course. Pogues help each other out."

You smile, pulling him into a quick hug, before handing him the spare key to your house. He heads over to take care of your siblings while you run to your beaten-down car, reversing out the road.

When you arrived at Tannyhill, you truly underestimated how large the party was going to be. People crowded all over, dancing, swinging, just having a reckless and wild time at Rafe Cameron's place. While you know you should be slightly embarrassed by the long pajama pants and braless baggy tee you're wearing right now, feeling overdressed, you step out of the car and head inside.

Topper spots you at the porch.

"Thank God," he mumbles under his breath. "He's been out of it."

You wonder if Topper knows about your arrangement with Rafe.

"Yeah," you nod. "Where is he?"

"I put him in his room with some water but I gotta tell you, he's wasted. Some of the things he says... may not be tasteful."

You scoff. We've already crossed that bridge. "I think I'll be fine."

Without another word, Topper pulls away and you head up the familiar stairs of the estate, descending down the hallway you were here just days ago. It feels, for some reason, like a lifetime since you visited.

You knock on the door, twice, to no answer. Deciding to go for it��praying you won't walk into some lewd act—you step into the room to find it peacefully quiet. Rafe laid out on the mattress, his eyes closed.

You scan the room, trying to see if there's any destruction—any thrown chairs or broken bottles—to find everything in the same condition as you visited prior. The only difference is a pink bag, sitting in his drawer with a bouquet of flowers sticking out.

Your stomach twists in jealousy as you wonder who that could be for. At what fool is receiving such gifts or who gave him such.

When you peek inside, you notice a couple of things: a white envelope, a bundle of red tulips, and like ten-plus stacks of Plan B.

You stiffen your laugh. You realize the fool is you.

Butterflies erupt in your stomach.

The bed creaks and you jump at the sound, seeing Rafe pulling himself up on the mattress into a sitting position, rubbing his eyes to clear his vision, before he finds you, standing in front of him.

He says your name. He thinks he's hallucinating from the drugs.

"Yeah," you nod, cautiously approaching him as his glazed eyes follow your every move. "It's me."

"I thought you said you had a double shift."

He didn't mean for his words to come off so sharp.

"I locked up an hour ago." You explain, brushing past his aggravation.

Rafe nods at your explanation, but his movements are sluggish. Lag. He truly is out of it. You're surprised he went this hard.

His head hangs, staring at his lap, before he asks quietly. "What are you doing here?"

You shrug. You don't know either. You thought he needed help. The idea of him asking for you, but you weren't there for him, kills something inside of you. But, you can't say that. Not after everything you said to him. Not after what this relationship is based on.

You are nothing more than a fake girlfriend.

"Topper said you needed help," you evade any sense of responsibility. Of care. "He texted me."

His jaw clenches, and he looks up at you. "Top has your number?"

"No. He found my Instagram," you answer, wondering if that is jealousy you hear. But, you settle that it can't possibly be the case. "He DM'd me and I came over."

Now it's your turn to be vulnerable.

"I thought you needed help."

Rafe scoffs, bitterly, running a hand through his tousled hair. "Unless you can get this headache out of my heart, I don't think there's much you can do, sweetheart."

You nod, your feet shift to the door, ready to leave. If this is all, if that's all Topper is worried about, Rafe should be fine.

"Come here."

You find yourself listening. Again. Your feet pads against the hardwood floor as you streamline over to him, stopping just in front of his legs hanging off the ledge of the mattress. His head tilts up to meet your gaze; his cloudy blue eyes staring back at you. You bite back a thought.

"I know something that would make me feel better."

You scoff at the suggestive tone. "Let me guess: fuck?"

"Sit on my lap."

You hesitate for a moment. You don't want to be another fuck. But, when his hand lands on the side of your thigh, gentle and earnest, you relent.

Slowly, you settle onto Rafe's lap, both legs on either side of his waist. Your body facing him, and despite him in the lower position, he meets you at eye level.

"Better?" You tilt your head, watching his shoulders unwind every-so-slightly.

"Much." He murmurs, his eyes tracing your face. "God, you're gorgeous."

You flush, knocking a weak palm against his broad shoulder. "Shut up," you say, feeling anything but. You're wearing scraps for clothing, something you planned to go straight to bed—not attend an extravagant party hosted by one of the island's finest.

"I'm fucking serious." He snaps, but his voice doesn't have that hard edge. You blame that on the alcohol too. "I saw all those girls tonight. And yet, here you are, in your fucking pajamas and getting me hard."

You scoff, turning away. "So it does lead back to sex."

"No, it means that they pale in comparison to you," he cups your chin, gently, pulling your gaze back to him. "I'm serious, sweetheart. Believe me."

You're afraid that if you move up against his lap, coming closer, you would feel his erection. Not to mention, if you do, you don't know if you're going to start dry-humping him like you did the other day. But, you remain firm on your stance.

You're not going to let him fuck you unless he talks to you.

The atmosphere thins into a silence, as you take in the low hums of the downstairs party blasting in distant music.

"How was the party?" You ask, probing for a conversation starter. "Was it everything you dreamed of?"

He scoffs. "You're looking at it. I basically drank and smoked until I got sick."

His vices. At least you didn't have to hear about the women he hooked up with, if that's the case. Something deep inside of you hope there isn't.

You nod silently, finding your fingers tracing the outline of his shoulders, your nails scraping against his hot skin and trailing up the crook of his neck. Rafe lets his eyes flutter close for a moment, breathing in a shaky breath.

"Don't do that."

"Why?" You ask, genuinely curious. "I'm just tracing."

"Because anything from you right now feels good," he confesses quietly, and your breath caught in your throat. You hand stills. "Fuck, don't stop."

"You're going to have to give me one signal here, Rafe," you roll your eyes. "You can't say green and red light at the same time."

He pauses for a moment. Contemplating your words.

"Green," he whispers. "Definitely green."

You return to your outline of Rafe's silhouette. He lets you. He says nothing as you follow down to the curve of his arms, skimming against his defined biceps and the muscles instinctively flex under your touch. It made you smile. You pretend you aren't proud of it.

This is done in complete silence.

Then, out of nowhere, Rafe confesses, "I shouldn't have touched you like that."

You freeze. You knew immediately what he was referring to.

"I—I was out of it. I took it out on you."

He still doesn't get it.

You abandon your artwork and use both hands to cup the underside of his jaw, forcing him to tilt his gaze and look up at you. With a sigh, you say, "that wasn't the problem." Your eyes study his face, "it was the fact that you didn't talk to me or explain to me what happened."

His gaze is broken; so incredibly so. The whites of his irises are a faint shade of red, bringing out the deep set of his blue eyes.

"I need to know these things, Rafe." You continue gently. "It's not about me being nosy, or a bitch, or anything. If I'm getting into something with you, I need to know the full picture so I can help you." You swallow your voice as you mumble out the next one. "So you can help me."

You hope he doesn't know the strain in your tone, how hard it was to say those words. You hope he doesn't press on it.

"Okay." Rafe nods, dipping his chin into your palms. "I get it."

"Easier said than done, darling."

Rafe knows it is. He's been struggling to string words together before you came into his life, much less with you in it. But, he was willing to try.

He begins at the dinner. With a stumbled start, he explains how Ward doesn't think he was good enough for you.

You stop him to ask questions. "He said that?"

"No," Rafe shakes his head. "But it's the look on his face. It's—the way he acted. You should've seen how he looked at me when he complimented you, like I'll never compare."

You frown at those words; you didn't even notice.

When he satisfied your questions, Rafe continued on with his story. Rambling further. Each word spilling out easier than the last. He assumed it's because of the alcohol, or the drugs, or perhaps it was neither altogether and it was just you. All in all, he knew.

It was easiest to talk to you.

It reminded him of the bar. He put himself in that setting. His words tumbles out of him with the impression that you won't share it with anyone else. The idea that you were just you, a bartender, who probably had to deal with this shit a thousand-times-over with other talkative customers. That it was you, who he is confessing a vulnerable part to, without the retaliation of judgment.

Rafe breakdowns the comments Ward made. The little conversation they shared after dinner, when you were helping with the caterers. Your clothes. It all became too much to him; like he was the problem. That nothing he did was good enough. His mind was spiraling by that time and having nothing else to pour it into—the drinks, the drugs, the partying—all he had was you.

And he used that to his advantage.

You listen intently, nodding along and following his words without further interruption. Only on things you truly need to clarify. When he finished, even with his incoherent noises and words, something in his chest lightens. It feels more at peace.

You stare at him for a few moments, digesting the information. A protectiveness forms in the pit against your stomach because fuck Ward, you decided. Sure, there may have been admiration from your end about his ability to become a Kook but that means shit now. You hate how he treats Rafe. You hate how you didn't notice.

"God, your dad is a dick."

Rafe doesn't agree like you expect him to. His gaze hardens, like he can't stand you insulting him. You realized, in that moment, you crossed a line. That he may harbor all these hurt and anger and resentment, at the end of the day, it's still his father.

"Sorry," you mumble softly. "I didn't mean it like—"

"I know what you mean."

That came out with an edge.

You swallow, deciding that you should leave. Maybe you being here isn't the right decision. Your legs are starting to cramp from their overstretched position and the inside of your thighs burn from the overuse. You peel your hands off his shoulders and slowly will yourself off of Rafe's lap.

"I should go," you declare, glancing at the exit.

Something in his chest tightens. He wasn't mad. He just wasn't used to regulating his emotions, especially about his father. All he knows is that he doesn't want you to leave.

"Wait," Rafe declares as you pause in front of his bedroom door. He stammers for an excuse. "I never made you come."

Your eyes slightly widen from the suggestion. "It's fine," you say, even though, in that moment, a small part of you hated him for that. "I... I finished myself off when I got home."

The image of you, in your bed, alone, touching yourself to relieve your aches, does something to him. Both in guilt and in arousal.

"No," he raises from his bed, approaching you. Now, with him standing on his own two feet, he towers over you—dominating and intimidating. "It's only fair. I should give back."

"Rafe," you place a hand on his chest, laughing awkwardly, because you don't know how you feel about him pleasuring you. "It's fine. It's not a tit-for-tat thing. You don't owe me anything."

He feels frustrated again. That's not what he meant.

"Fine." He snaps. "You want my words? I want to make you come. I want you to feel as good as I did that day."

You stare at him, the air stolen from your lungs, not knowing what to say. Then, suddenly, an idea occurs to you and a sly smile rises to your lips.

"You want to help me come?" You ask sweetly, watching as he nods his head like an obedient dog. "Okay."

Your hands travel down to the hem of his pants, to his belt, and unbuckle them. Rafe's face conveys surprise, that you're so eager to accept, and when you pull out the leather strap, you stop. Just for a moment, you glance back, asking in confirmation. "My pleasure, right?"

He doesn't know what you're trying to do, but he nods anyway.

"Turn around."

Rafe does what you say. You take both of his wrists into one of your hands—a struggle that Rafe had to assist with—and pins them behind his back. Using the belt, you tie them together.

"Sweetheart..." His voice is low, unsure of how you're able to proceed, but the arousal travels through his body at the uncertainty.

"Trust me." You whisper, buckling them into a firm lock. When you walk back around to face Rafe, your panties dampen at the sight before you: him, standing tall, with his arms pinned behind him, almost helpless. "Sit."

Rafe takes the seat on the desk chair you pulled out, his bounded arms touching the back of the seat as his focus is pinned on you, standing before his bed.

You let out a shaky breath, excitement bubbling in your stomach at the idea of what's about to happen, before your fingers hook to the band of your pants, slowly pulling them down to your ankles. He watches every little move; like a strip tease catered specifically for him. Something he can see. Something he can't touch.

Rafe can feel his erection hardens in his jeans.

"What are you doing?" Rafe's voice is rough and once you step out of your pants, revealing the white panties underneath, he groans at the sight.

"I'm going to make myself feel good," you declare evenly, trying to calm your racing heart, "and you're going to watch."

His Adam's apple bobs. "How do I help?"

"I look at you as I do."

A complaint lodged in his throat but you caught it before he proceeded. "My pleasure, right?" You remind him, to which he, with great reluctance, nods.

You leave your shirt on, deciding it would be unnecessary to take off, and settle down on his bed. Your back pressed against the mattress, you position yourself comfortably in a way that allows Rafe to watch.

And he's watching.

"Are you going to use your fingers?" Rafe asks, deciding that he needs to talk to keep him sane.

"Mhm," you answer, spreading your legs. Arousal licks up your stomach as you feel the cool air brushes the inside of your thighs, raising goosebumps against your skin. You feel the urge to laugh to dispel some discomfort in your body, at how intense Rafe is studying you, but you choose not to. "I might only use two. It'll be tight."

Fuck, Rafe thought.

With a tentative hand, you brush your fingers against your panties, feeling your wetness forming a spot. The light touches ignites heat in your core and your eyes flutter close for a second.

"Look at me." Rafe commands, trying to regain some control. It doesn't work, but you listen anyway.

You watch him as you continue to stroke yourself, pressing against your clothed pussy, not quite entering, as a light coat of your slick covers your fingers. You tip your head back with a small moan.

"Sweetheart," he groans, "stop torturing yourself."

When he truly means to stop torturing him.

You pull your hand back and stuff your fingers into your mouth to cover with saliva, tasting the faintness of your arousal, before returning back to your pussy. Pushing the drenched fabric to the side, a forefinger slips inside easily.

A whimper escapes you, your back arching slightly from the intrusion of your touch. Rafe's breath hitches in his throat as he watches you steadily pump yourself, in-and-out with one digit. You focus on your own pleasure, how good it feels, with the heightened sensitivity of Rafe's attention all on you.

And he's fucking hard.

Rafe watches as you spread your wet folds, slipping in another finger to your tight cunt. It kills him that he can't do anything about it. 

"I bet my fingers would fill you more," he offers seductively, trying to remind you of his existence. That he can do it too. You laugh softly, not taking the bait. "What are you thinking about?"

"How good this feels," you whisper, hearing the sound of your wetness squelching in the air. You mewl. "You."

Rafe grunts at the confession. You try to keep your eyes set on him, to remember what you're doing, who you're doing it with, but the build-up is causing you to lose control and makes you close your eyes.

"Eyes." He demands, his voice sharper than before. You open them with great resistance, each second longer is a struggle to keep them focused on him. 

"Oh, god," you moan, quickening your pace as you connect your gaze with Rafe. The way he looking at you right now. It reminds you of the night at Topper's house, the time in the country club's bathroom. "Yes, yes, fuck."

He can't stand this. He's straining against his jeans, his cock painfully hard without any relief, while his wrists are bound and reddened by how tight you locked him in. How he's pushing against the leather, trying to break free.

You close your eyes again in pleasure. Your orgasm is getting close.

Rafe swallows hard. "You feelin' good, sweetheart?"

You nod eagerly, flicking your gaze back to him. "You enjoying the view?"

He clenches his jaw, not responding, but you can tell. The impressive outline of his bulge against his pants, how hungry his eyes are. How much he wants you.

It lights something carnal within you. You start to pump harder and faster inside your pussy, your moan growing louder and without inhibition; Rafe's very own porn show in front of him.

He has enough.

"I need to touch you." Rafe declares desperately, rising from his chair, his eyes never straying from the perfect image of you, on his bed, fucking yourself, writhing in ecstasy. "Come on, sweetheart, I can—fuck—I can make you feel so much better."

He's bargaining, goddammit.

A small laugh leaves you, mixed in with the sound of your own pleasure, and you don't acknowledge his comment. His pleads. He steps forward, closing the distance between the two of you.

Rafe growls out your name.

You glance up at him through a heavy-lidded gaze. "Hmm?" You say innocently, pulling your hand out of your pussy. His eyes glance down at your slickness glistening off your fingers, his chest tightening.

"Say yes." He demands weakly, his voice rough and filled with so much restraint, like he's seconds away from losing it. "Tell me I can touch you."

You pull yourself to your knees, bending before him, your smile full of satisfaction. "You want me that badly, baby?"

He doesn't even bother denying it anymore. "Yes."

"My pleasure, right, baby?"

"Fuck, yes," he groans. "Please."

You grin, bringing your wet fingers to his mouth and pressing it against his full lips. He takes you in, sucking your arousal clean from your hand, his eyes still on yours, and you, finally, finally nod.

"You can touch me."

Rafe breaks his belt buckle in one swift motion, surprising you, before his hands immediately cover your body, grabbing at any flesh he can find. His mouth claims yours, pulling you into a hungry kiss and pushing you back against the mattress as his weight pins you down.

"You can't get enough of me." You tease, moaning at how good he tastes, how you can taste yourself on him, and your fingers find his hair. When he breaks, his hard eyes land on your face.

"You don't know how fucking badly I want to punish you right now," he confesses lowly, his hand lowering to the space between your legs. "For torturing me like that."

"It doesn't feel good, does it?"

Rafe scoffs, capturing your cheeks in one large hand, squeezing them together. He runs the pad of his thumb across your bottom lip, mumbling, "this fucking mouth."

You provoke further. "You love it."

He doesn't answer you, silencing himself with a bruising kiss against your lips and sucking all the air out of your lungs. When his hand lands on your pussy, his fingers begin to run tight circles around your clit, causing you to arch into him.

"Oh, god," you moan into his mouth as he swallows the sound. Breaking from the kiss to glance down, he watches at how responsive your body is, how you're writhing under his touch, and smirks.

"Feels good?"

"So good," you whisper needily, "please keep doing that."

Rafe descends down your body, kissing a trail from the navel of your stomach to your wet cunt, aching and waiting just for him. "I'm going to make you come on my fingers, tongue, and face. Think you can do that for me, sweetheart?"

He doesn't give you time to answer, covering his mouth over your swollen nub and sucks.

"Oh, fuck," your hips involuntarily bucks against his face. He grins against your pussy, in satisfaction, at how good he's making you feel. At how good you taste. To be denied of this, for the past hour, was torture. He wants to pleasure and punish you, all in one. "Don't stop, don't stop."

Your legs wrap around his head in a lock as he ascends you towards your peak, slipping two thick fingers into your pussy. The size makes your walls clench around them. Rafe groans, the vibration against your clit pushing you further into your climax.

"Please don't stop, please." You moan in desperation, afraid of him pulling out again, tipping your head back against his pillows, your fingers gripping his hair harder. Rafe twists his fingers, entering at a new angle, allowing the cool sensation of his ring against your hot cunt and amplifies your sensitivity.

"I'm not going anywhere, baby."

Rafe quickens his pace, his fingers thrusting in with precision and hitting all the right spots. In addition, he slurps harder, tonguing your clit in a way that causes stars to blanket your vision. Writhing in pleasure, you moan and whimper, racing towards your orgasm. 

"Come for me," he commands, feeling your walls twitching towards a desperate end, “let me hear my girl."

You release with a heavy cry, coming on his face and slumping back against the bed from pure exhaustion. Combined with the day you had, the double shifts you've been pulling, and the incredible orgasm you're given, all you want to do is sleep.

"Get up," Rafe declares, but you don't move. "Come on, sweetheart."

"Give me five minutes," you yawn, holding out five fingers while your eyes flutter. "I just need to..."

You don't finish your sentence, closing your eyes for a brief moment. That's what you tell yourself, and the last thing you remember before you fall completely in your slumber. 

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Navigation — Part 03 | Part 04 | Part 05

[w4ndal0ver]

Good Old Fashioned Lover Girl (rockstar!agatha x fan!reader)

[minors don't interact, 18+]

pairing: rockstar!daddy!agatha x fan!sub!reader

summary: You find yourself in the bed of the one and only Agatha Harkness, the lead singer of your all time favourite band.

content warnings: drug use in build up, shameful daddy kink, gagging, slapping, praise and degradation, slut shaming, spit play, fingering, cunnilingus, semi-public sex, choking, strap sex, throat fucking, spanking (minimal), power imbalance considering reader is a fan, only read if you wanna be railed by rockstar agatha

word count: 10k, sorry but it is shameful smut, I'm ovulating <3

You could hardly believe the night you’d had as you walked the streets alone at midnight. The concert you’d just been to was the best you’d ever been to, the lights blazing hot and harsh against the smoke that filled the room, neon halos on top of each member of the band's head. The Coven had been your favourite band for years, so when you found yourself in the middle of the heaving crowd, your brain half-euphoric, you could hardly believe who was standing in front of you. 

Agatha Harkness stood centre stage, as she always did, owning the space with the kind of effortless power that seemed too raw, too real to be anything but magic. The Coven had made a name for themselves in the music industry, their sound something darker, more visceral than any other you’d heard and at the heart of it was her. 

She was wearing another version of the same outfit she always wore, her hair wild and untamed, nothing but a black headband around her forehead. She didn’t just sing, she commanded, snarling lyrics into the mic that she grasped with such intensity. Her voice had a honey gravel to it, carrying a rough edge that cut right through you. 

After a while, your brain still awestruck as you found yourself at the doors of a dive bar not too far from the venue. This place looked like it had been standing here forever, soaked in beer from the outside, and stale smoke encompassing the inside. The wallpaper was peeling, faded posters from bands that had long since faded away hung over the top. 

The bar was small and dimly lit, just a few lowlights casting a dull amber glow over worn out tables and booths. A jukebox sat in the corner, glowing softly, though it was clear nobody had bothered to feed it quarters in a long time. Behind the bar, a bored looking man with a cigarette between his fingers was polishing glasses with a rag that looked as though it might be dirtier than the glasses themselves. The air was thick with the scent of old leather, cigarettes, and spilled whiskey, mixed with the indefinable mustiness that clung to the room. 

In one corner, a small group of regulars huddled over their drinks, murmuring quietly to each other, their faces shadowed and weathered. So you decide to slide onto a stool at the bar, ordering a drink and letting the strange, comforting grime of the place settle around you. It wasn’t at all glamorous, but it was real, a welcome change from the chaos of the concert. The drink was cheap, but strong, and as you took a sip the buzzing in your brain started again. You’d taken everything you had at the concert but now you looked around eagerly in an attempt to see anyone doing any type of drug that you could befriend just to continue your high. 

That was when you saw her. 

You didn’t think it would happen, nowhere near a place like this, a dive tucked away from the spotlight, a world removed from the stage. But there she was: Agatha, who took centre stage even here, as if the universe had conspired this moment itself. She was perched on the edge of a booth in the corner, surrounded by a shifting circle of friends, hangers-on, industry types, all vying for her attention as she leaned back, one arm slung over the seat like she owned the entire bar. 

A glass dangled from her fingers, half filled with something dark, and her other held a cigarette, a thin wisp of smoke curling up toward the ceiling. She looked utterly magnetic, her hair still tousled from the stage, her eyes sharp as she surveyed the room through half lidded eyes. You couldn’t help staring, even though you knew you should look away. You could see the way her eyes flickered to the small folded up bill tucked in the palm of her hand. It was all too subtle, like a well worn habit, but you noticed. She unrolled it slowly, taking the time to expertly cut the line on the table, the sharp scent of it lingering in the air to you even from across the room. 

You zip up your jacket, hiding the Coven logo branded across your chest, but you feel your gaze stray back to her again and again, like a pull that you couldn’t resist. She seemed to glow in the low, smoky light. You watched her lean forward slightly, legs still spread, the sharp click on the lighter cutting through the noise as she held up the rolled up bill to her nose, inhaling deeply. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, a brief moment of bliss, before she straightened back up, licking her lips with a satisfied smile. Even in this rough dimly lit bar, she looked untouchable, like she could have the entire world if she wanted it. 

As she looked up again, her eyes met yours across the room and you felt your face go warm, the thrill and panic hitting all at once, as if you’d been laid bare under her piercing gaze. You quickly looked down, pretending to focus on your drink, and took a long, shaky sip, hoping to drown the strange tension in your chest. Even as you stared at the scratched surface of the bar, you could feel her eyes on you, lingering like heat on your skin. You laughed at your situation, before downing the rest of your drink, slamming the empty glass against the bar and waving at the bartender once more. 

“Whiskey, rocks.” You say, but somehow, impossibly, she was there beside you, moving so smoothly that you didn’t realise it until she was close enough that you could feel her presence, like a dark star drawing you into her orbit. You felt one of her hands pressed firmly against the small of your back, a strong, grounding touch that made you catch your breath, while the other reached up to signal to the bartender. 

“All her drinks are on my tab.” She drawled, her voice rich and low, a quiet command that made it clear she was used to getting what she wanted. 

“You don’t have to do that.” You protest, swallowing deeply at the way her fingers pressed just a little too hard into your back, possessive in a way that made your pulse race. She turned toward you, and there was a smirk playing at the corner of her lips, a knowing glint in her eye.

She raised an eyebrow, her smirk deepening, clearly amused by your protest. “Oh, but I insist,” she murmured, leaning in close enough that her breath grazed your cheek, warm and tinged with whiskey and something sweeter. “It’s the least I can do for a fan.” Her gaze flickered down, lingering on the way you fidgeted with the hem of your jacket, the subtle nerves you were trying so hard to mask.

“Fan? Who says I’m a fan?” You tried for nonchalance, but the way her hand lingered against your back made it hard to focus, like she was rooting you in place with the barest of touches.

Agatha chuckled, a low, velvet sound that seemed to resonate through you. “Don’t play coy,” she teased, her eyes glinting with a mix of mischief and challenge. “It’s adorable, but it doesn’t suit you.” Her gaze slipped down your form, slowly, her eyes dragging over every detail. Her fingers pressed a little harder, her thumb tracing a lazy circle over the small of your back, sending a shiver up your spine.

You tried to play it cool, shrugging one shoulder, but your heart was pounding. “I didn’t realise you were so charitable,” you shot back, lifting your glass and taking a steadying sip, hoping the whiskey would help ground you, help steady the thrill building in your chest.

She laughed softly, a flash of teeth in that knowing smirk of hers. “Only to the ones who catch my eye,” she replied, her voice dipped in honey, slow and deliberate. She let her gaze linger on you a beat too long, making her meaning unmistakable. “And you, well you’ve been looking at me all night, haven’t you?”

You felt your cheeks flush, caught off guard by her directness. “Maybe,” you replied, trying to sound casual, but the way she was looking at you made it impossible to keep up the facade. “Or maybe you’re just used to people looking.”

“True,” she admitted with a shrug, her hand sliding from your back to the bar beside you, her presence enveloping you as she leaned in. Her face was close, her voice barely a murmur. “But I don’t usually notice them.” She let that hang in the air, a faint smirk playing at her lips as her eyes drifted down to your mouth, just for a heartbeat, before flicking back to meet your gaze. 

The air between you was thick, electric, and you had to steady yourself, gripping your glass tighter. “So what’s someone like you doing in a place like this?” you asked, tipping your head toward the dive bar’s worn booths and the crowd that was beginning to dissipate, leaving the two of you in a quiet, unspoken bubble.

She shrugged, glancing around with a lazy, amused smile, as though the place were her personal playground. “I like the grime,” she said, her fingers idly tapping the bar. “It’s real. Cuts through the polish.” She tilted her head, studying you like you were part of her scenery, something curious and worth examining. “Besides,” she added, “I thought I’d find something interesting here tonight.”

“Something interesting?” you echoed, and she nodded, her eyes never leaving yours.

“Or maybe,” she purred, her voice soft and edged with challenge, “someone interesting.”

She was close enough now that you could feel the faint warmth of her skin, smell the lingering scent of her perfume mixed with smoke. You swallowed, barely able to hold her gaze, feeling like you were teetering on the edge of something dangerous and thrilling. She reached for her own drink, her fingers brushing against yours for just a moment, her touch electric.

“Come sit with me,” she said, tipping her head toward the booth in the corner where a glass, a small mirror, and a familiar rolled-up bill waited. Her invitation was as much a challenge as it was a command.

Your breath caught as she turned, her fingers slipping from your back in a way that left you feeling almost cold without her touch. But you didn’t hesitate. Her gaze stayed locked on you, even as she made her way to the booth, the air between you thick with anticipation. You could feel every eye in the bar turn as you followed her, but Agatha walked as if she was born to be watched. Heads turned; glances lingered, but she was utterly unfazed, her attention fully on you as she slid into the dark leather seat.

The booth was tucked in a shadowy corner, half hidden from the rest of the bar. You slid in across from her, feeling the cracked leather beneath your fingers as you settled in. She leaned back, one arm draped casually along the booth’s edge, her fingers tapping a slow rhythm as she watched you. The tension in the air thickened, like a coiled spring, and you couldn’t help but feel like you were in a game you didn’t quite know the rules to.

She reached for the mirror on the table, her movements smooth, practised, almost mesmerising. With a practised flick of her wrist, she cut a line, her fingers graceful and sure. She caught your gaze as she leaned down, taking her time, her eyes glinting with something wild as she inhaled. The scene felt surreal, like you were suspended between reality and some hazy dream, the sounds of the bar fading as she lifted her head, exhaling with a slow smile.

“You want one?” she asked, gesturing to the mirror, her voice low and edged with mischief.

You hesitated for a beat, but then nodded, feeling the adrenaline humming in your veins. You weren’t about to back down now, not with her eyes fixed on you like that, daring you to take the plunge. She slid the mirror toward you, a hint of approval in her gaze as you leaned forward, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. You took the line, feeling the sharp rush as it coursed through you, heightening everything, the smoky lights, the hum of the bar, the way her gaze seemed to burn into you.

“Not bad,” she murmured, her smirk widening, clearly satisfied as she watched you settle back, your senses tingling from the rush.

Conversation drifted between you, each exchange a slow burn, full of glances that lingered too long, subtle touches that seemed to spark against your skin. Her fingers grazed yours as she reached for her drink, her knee pressing against yours under the table, each point of contact like a flicker of static. The intensity in her gaze never wavered, her eyes dancing with amusement every time you tried to play it cool.

At some point, her hand slipped over yours on the table, her fingers tracing lazy circles along your knuckles, the touch so subtle it was almost maddening. You could feel yourself leaning closer, caught up in the gravitational pull between you, until her face was inches from yours. Her thumb brushed over your hand, her eyes flicking down to your mouth, and you barely had a second to react before she closed the space between you, her lips pressing against yours in a kiss that was anything but gentle.

It was fierce, almost desperate, her mouth hot and demanding, like she’d been holding back until now. You felt a rush of vulnerability, exposed and yet anchored by her touch. Her fingers tightened over yours as she deepened the kiss, her other hand sliding to the back of your neck, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanking your head backwards as she took your bottom lip between your teeth. The world blurred, the sounds and lights of the bar fading into nothing, leaving just the heat of her mouth and the taste of her lingering on your lips. 

When she finally pulled back, her lips hovered just above yours, her breath warm against your skin. She looked at you with a raw intensity, her fingers slipping down to the collar of your jacket. 

“Come with me, pet.” She growls into your ear, her voice a quiet demand that leaves no room for argument. 

“I’m not your pet, and I’m not just going to go anywhere-”

“Now, last chance.” She smirked into your lips as the pads of her fingers graze the skin of your throat.

Your heart pounded as she helped you off the booth by your hips, leading you down the narrow hallway to the back of the bar, her hand firm around yours, fingers intertwined as if she couldn’t risk letting you slip away. She pushed open the bathroom door, pulling you inside and locking it behind her with a decisive click.

In the small, dim space, the air felt even more charged, thick with the weight of everything that had gone unsaid. She pressed you against the wall, her fingers tracing along your collar, slipping down to your jacket’s zipper. She looked up at you, her eyes dark and unyielding, a smirk playing at her lips as she began to tug it down, slowly, drawing out every inch.

The moment the zipper gave way, her eyes flicked down, catching sight of the faded band logo on the shirt beneath. She froze, her expression flickering between surprise and satisfaction, her fingers tracing over the familiar emblem. Her gaze lifted, and a grin spread across her face, filled with a mix of pride and something darker, a glint of triumph in her eyes.

“So, you really are a fan,” she whispered, her voice thick with amusement, as she leaned in, her lips brushing your ear. “I like that. So you really will do whatever I want hm?”

Her words curled around you, low and smoky, settling over you with a teasing weight. You swallowed, your pulse racing as she traced the band logo with her fingertips, a lazy, possessive touch that sent a shiver down your spine. She was so close, every breath she took brushing warm against your neck, her fingers just hovering there, making it clear that she was savouring every second of this reveal.

Her smirk deepened, eyes locked on yours, searching for that flicker of hesitation that never came. You could feel yourself melting into her, caught up in the heady mixture of her touch and her scent, the unmistakable pull she seemed to have over you. “You don’t mind, do you?” she murmured, her voice a velvet-soft purr that seemed to echo in the dim, tiled room.

You felt the words catch in your throat, but the defiance flickered in your gaze for a brief moment, just enough to make her laugh softly, a dark, satisfied sound that only pulled you further under her spell. She let her fingers slide up to your shoulder, resting there with a possessiveness that made it impossible to pull away even if you wanted to.

"Good," she whispered, her lips tracing a feather-light line down to the side of your jaw. "Because I don't intend to be gentle."

“I don’t like it gentle.” You smirk, feeling the confidence hit you as her hands roamed your clothed skin. This seemed to rile Agatha up to the highest degree, her hand grasping your jaw, tilting your head roughly upwards, her thumb pressing against your bottom lip before her lips collided with yours again, her hands obsessed with wrapping themselves in your hair and pulling you about and into the positions she wanted your mouth in. 

She angled your head to just the right position, her lips moving against yours with a confidence that left no room for hesitation. Every motion was a reminder of exactly who was in control, and somehow, that only made your pulse race harder.

The roughness of her touch sent a thrill through you, her nails grazing your scalp as she pulled you even closer, moulding you to her with an urgency that left you dizzy. The cool tile pressed against your back, grounding you, a sharp contrast to the heat building between you. Her thumb swept over your bottom lip again, lingering there for a tantalising moment before she deepened the kiss, taking exactly what she wanted. You felt her smile against your mouth, a sly, knowing curve, as though she was savouring every bit of control she held over you.

When she finally pulled back, her eyes roamed over you, dark and pleased, her lips curled in that signature smirk. "There’s a good little girl," she murmured, her voice low and taunting, her gaze raking over you like she was cataloguing every response, every tell. Her fingers stayed buried in your hair, keeping you close, her eyes searching yours, relishing in the effect she had on you.

"Not so cocky now, are you?" she teased, her voice edged with satisfaction as she took in your slightly dazed expression. "Let’s see if you’re still this bold by the time I’m done with you."

“Please Agatha.” You couldn’t believe those words were tumbling from messy lips as your chin covered in her saliva, the way she kissed was rougher than anything you’d ever experienced before and each brush of her lips against your neck sent chills to your core and you could feel your arousal pooling at the cloth of your sheer underwear.

Agatha’s smirk widened, her eyes glinting with wicked amusement as she ran her thumb over your swollen lower lip, silencing any further plea with a dark satisfaction. “Begging already?” she murmured, her voice a low, sultry taunt that only made the heat pooling in your core throb harder. Her grip on you was firm, unyielding, her fingers tangling through your hair with a control that left you feeling both held and exposed. She tilted your head back slightly, her lips grazing your neck in maddening, fleeting touches, each one calculated, leaving you breathless.

“Patience,” she whispered, dragging her thumb down over your chin, tracing a line through the glisten of her own lingering kiss. “I need to know what I’m working with.” Her lips ghosted over your collarbone, her hands roaming, exploring, as if mapping out every sensitive inch with deliberate care. Each press of her fingers was possessive, each touch purposeful, a silent reminder of the control she had over you.

You swallowed, chest heaving, trying to keep up with her pace, her confidence, the edge in her gaze that promised you were just getting started. She seemed to drink in your reactions, her smirk only deepening as her lips moved back up to your ear, her breath hot against your skin.

“You don’t disappoint so far,” she purred, her voice low, wicked, as her fingers traced over the thin fabric clinging to your hips, teasing just enough to make you ache for more. “But let’s see if you can keep up with me, hmm?”

“I can, I will.” Your voice is laced with desperation, her lips cutting you off again, the burning sensation that spread across your entire body as she pressed you harder into the wall.

“So desperate to please, you’re ticking all the boxes.” Agatha hums, her lips grazing your ear lobe before biting down hard, eliciting a sharp moan from your lips as your head falls back against the tiles, “Such pretty noises, god you might be perfect.” Even that allowed for another moan to fall from your lips.

A dark, satisfied glint lit up Agatha’s gaze as she took in every sound, every tremble that escaped you. Her teeth dragged down the curve of your neck, marking her path with enough force to make your breath hitch, as if staking her claim on each inch of your skin. The pressure of her body kept you pressed against the wall, her hands never leaving you, roaming with a practised assurance that left no room for doubt, she knew exactly the effect she was having on you.

She pulled back just enough to watch your reaction, the intensity in her eyes searing into you. Her fingers traced slow, tantalising circles over the thin barrier of fabric at your hips, her smirk widening as she watched you bite your lip, barely able to stifle another moan. “I think I quite like you like this,” she murmured, her voice a velvet drawl, “all needy, waiting on me.”

Her lips found yours again, rough and consuming, a heady mix of possession and challenge as if daring you to keep up with her relentless pace. The kiss left you dizzy, her hands tightening around you, pulling you in closer until there was nothing between you but the heat and tension building with every breath.

“Tell me,” she whispered, her tone teasing, her thumb pressing firmly against your jaw to hold you there, “how long have you thought about this, hmm? Standing there in my crowd, wishing you were closer, wishing you could have this?” Her words were low and knowing, stoking the fire that was already blazing through you, her mouth grazing the edge of your jaw, her breath warm against your skin.

She didn’t need you to answer. The truth was written all over you, and from the look in her eyes, she was revelling in every moment of watching you unravel. “On your knees pet, now.” 

Her eyes held yours, sharp and unwavering, a quiet but unmistakable demand as her fingers traced down your jaw, guiding you downward with a touch that was both gentle and unrelenting. Heart pounding, you sank to your knees, feeling the rough tile beneath you as Agatha’s smirk deepened, satisfaction flickering across her face like she’d been waiting for this moment all night.

She took her time, savouring each second, watching with dark amusement as you settled, as though you were exactly where she’d intended you to be all along. Her hand stayed on your jaw, firm but caressing, fingers brushing your skin in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. Her thumb traced your cheek, slow and deliberate, her gaze warm with both pride and anticipation.

“There we go,” she murmured, her voice a low hum that washed over you, making you feel completely at her mercy. She tilted her head, studying you like a masterpiece she was in the midst of creating, her smirk widening as she took in your flushed cheeks, the way you looked up at her, completely caught in her orbit.

“You look good like this,” she mused, her thumb brushing over your bottom lip, her fingers tilting your head up just enough to meet her gaze. “Desperate, willing, exactly as I imagined.” Her eyes glittered with satisfaction, and she leaned down, her lips ghosting over yours in a barely-there kiss, keeping you aching for more. “Now,” she whispered, a wicked glint in her eye as she leaned back, “show me just how much of a fan you really are.” As she said this, her fingers were unbuckling the gold belt that kept her flowing trousers up. 

You decided to take some initiative, your hands reaching up the back of her thighs, grabbing her ass with two firm handfuls before slowly pulling her trousers down her legs, placing kisses along the length of her skin, your hands trembling as she stepped out of the leg holes. 

Her smirk deepened as she watched you, clearly relishing every moment of control and every tremor that ran through your fingers as you traced her skin. The dim light cast shadows over her, adding to her untouchable aura, but here she was, letting you peel away the layers. Your lips brushed her thigh, feather-light, trailing upward as you took your time, savouring the feel of her beneath your hands. She hummed in approval, a low, satisfied sound that sent a thrill through you, her fingers tangling into your hair to guide you exactly where she wanted.

She pressed herself against you, one leg between your knees, steadying you with a possessive hand at the nape of your neck. Her grip tightened, firm yet teasing, as though she were testing your resolve, testing just how far you’d go to please her. Each kiss, each touch, seemed to stoke the fire between you both, her gaze dark and knowing as you looked up at her, taking in the raw, magnetic presence that she commanded so effortlessly.

“Keep going,” she murmured, her voice low, dripping with authority, as she looked down at you with that signature smirk. “Show me that you’re worth taking home.” The words were laced with challenge, her tone daring, yet there was an undeniable hint of satisfaction in her eyes, as if she’d known all along you’d be here, right in her hands. 

In the rush of her impatience, she pulled her lilac underwear down, stepping out of them and putting them in her pocket, pressing her leg between yours, putting pressure against the heat of your core in a gesture of getting you to hurry up. You looked up at her cunt, your hand reaching up to touch her but she batted your hand away, grabbing your hair and pushing your face towards her. You obliged immediately, the grip she had within your hair way too strong to disobey her. 

You sweeped your tongue through her folds, sliding gracefully across her glistening skin, with the first contact her grip tightened in your hair and you moaned deeply into her cunt as she placed her other leg over your shoulder, allowing for you to get the best angle. You couldn’t help but devour her, the clear view of her pussy reacting to every breath you took near her, lying your flat tongue against her entire slit, feeling her hips slip underneath you, finally gaining a level of contact that made her weak in the knees. 

Her light groans against your tongue quickened as you dragged your tongue from her entrance, encircling her clit with sharp strokes that made her grip tighten as you heard a thump from where her other hand fell against the wall, holding herself up. You took her clit between your lips, sucking gently which made her gasp in a way that surprised even Agatha herself. 

You were eagerly watching and feeling for her body to react positively to each new way you swiped your tongue against her clit, wanting to remember how you made her tremble beneath your mouth. You wanted to know what made her grip your hair tighter, more desperate for your tongue to drive her into that desperate release that you didn’t think she was expecting from a bar goer that she’d dragged into the bathroom. 

Her hips started to grind against your tongue, her low groans sometimes slipping into sharp moans, but once you hardened your muscle against her clit, she groaned a list of expletives for anyone in the entire bar to hear that sent a rush of arousal to your already dripping core. The way her leg was wrapped around your body, gripping your body closer to her cunt, not letting you pull away even if you wanted to.  

You continued your movements and there she was, moans tumbling from her lips as her climax reached its peak, her breathy groans forcing you to push away the feeling of your jaw beginning to clamp up, but there was no way you were going to stop now with her hips uncontrollably bucking against your mouth, her arousal lacing your lips and seeping in against your tastebuds. 

You continued light gentle circles until Agatha removed her leg that was tightly wrapped around you. She looked down at you, her eyes saying everything without her needing to speak a word. You knew you looked irresistible to her, she wasn’t expecting you to make her cum in the bar's bathroom, you got the feeling she wanted to humiliate you when you couldn’t, but you showed her. Her thumb stroked your lip, your face covered in her glistening arousal. She prised your lips open, allowing a long string of saliva to fall from her lips and land against your worked out tongue. You immediately swallowed, your mouth still open and she couldn’t help but smirk down at you. 

“Well you’re an experienced whore aren’t you.” She said and your immediate nod told her everything she needed to know, she needed to take you home. She grabbed her trousers off the floor, slipping back inside of them quickly, grabbing you by your hair and guiding you off your knees. She captured you in another kiss, “You’re coming with me, I need to use you like you deserve.” You whined into Agatha’s lips, nodding desperately as you could feel your own arousal leaking from your underwear. “You’d like that wouldn’t you pet.” 

“Please Agatha.” That was all you needed to say, she pinched your hardened nipple that had suddenly arisen through your Coven t-shirt and you groaned in desperation as she led you out of the bathroom and immediately out of the bar. 

As soon as the cool night air hits you, the taste of Agatha still on your lips as her driver turns the corner and stops right in front of you. The car was massive, its sleek black exterior gleaming under the dim street lights as the door swung open. Agatha’s driver gave a polite nod, allowing you to step inside. The interior was everything you’d expect, rich leather seats, polished wood accents, and soft lighting that gave the whole cabin a warm, intimate glow.

Agatha’s presence was magnetic as she followed you into the car, closing the door behind her with a quiet click. She slid into the seat next to you, her hand resting briefly on your leg before she reached for the partition, smoothly lowering it with a subtle press of a button. The car’s low hum enveloped you both in a private space, shutting out the outside world.

She leaned back, her eyes glinting with amusement as she studied you. “Comfy?” Her voice was smooth, like velvet, making your skin tingle.

You nodded, trying to calm the rush of emotions swirling inside you. Agatha’s presence was overwhelming, and being this close, in the intimate confines of the car, only made everything feel more intense.

The car began to move and Agatha lent forward, shutting the divider between your section and the drivers, unclicking your seatbelt with a chuckle. “Come sit on Daddy’s lap.” You swallow in shock at the title she’d crowned herself, not that you were complaining. You shuffle off of your seat, straddling over her lap, burying your face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent. She smelt like smoke covered in vanilla, a smell that you couldn’t help but need. 

You were wearing a short black skirt, your Coven t-shirt still on show, now directly in Agatha’s eyeline as her hands fell to your bare thighs. You arched your back into her touch as you kept your head against her shoulder. You could feel how desperate you were, your legs being spread over her lap constantly reminding you of how your arousal was dripping down your thighs. 

“I need you Daddy.” You whimper into her ear, sucking lightly against her earlobe. You were trying to pull on every one of her strings, you’d imagined this moment in your head for years, ever since you heard her first song. You never thought you’d ever be sitting on her lap in the back of her car, so you weren’t going to pass up on the opportunity. 

“Oh I know you do, pet.” Agatha grins, her palm cupping your clothed cunt, licking her bottom lip at the damp fabric. You whimper at the slight contact, unconsciously grinding your hips against her hand. “Behave.” You comply, stilling your hips and allowing for her finger to push your underwear to the side, just the tip of her finger grazing your arousal. She isn’t prepared to do much more, just gently allowing your arousal to seep into her skin, letting you get used to not getting what you want. 

After a few more minutes of relentless teasing, the car pulls up to the entrance of her estate. The mansion looms in front of you, a towering structure bathed in soft light, the large windows reflecting the night sky. The grand, wrought-iron gates open slowly, and the driver steers the car down the long, winding driveway. 

“You have a beautiful house.” You say, awestruck at the sight of it. 

“Thank you,” Agatha replies, her voice as cool and controlled as always, though there’s a flicker of pride in her eyes. She watches you with a knowing expression. “ I take care of it, and those who walk through its doors.”

The car stops at the front steps, and as the engine quiets, you can hear the sound of crickets in the distance, adding an eerie but peaceful touch to the atmosphere. You’re still trying to process the vastness of the estate, the grandeur of the house—its stone pillars, the delicate arches of the windows, and the perfectly manicured gardens that line the path.

Before you can say another word, the door opens, and Agatha steps out of the car, her coat billowing around her. She doesn’t look back, but her posture is commanding, as though she knows exactly how you’re looking at her.

“You coming?” she asks, her voice low and smooth.

You quickly follow her, stepping out onto the cold marble steps, your breath visible in the night air. Agatha walks ahead, her heels clicking on the stone as she leads you to the massive oak doors. The faint scent of something floral lingers in the air as she opens the door with a practised ease, and the interior of her home is revealed.

Rich tapestries hang from the walls, the faint glow of candlelight illuminating the elegant furniture, casting shadows that dance across the room. It’s opulent, but in a way that feels lived-in, comfortable, inviting.

She turns to face you as she closes the door behind you, her lips curling into a slow, amused smile. Agatha steps toward you, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she stops just in front of you. The temperature seems to rise just slightly, the intensity of her gaze holding you captive. She lifts a hand, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, her fingers grazing your skin with a touch that feels like it could set you alight.

"This way," she murmurs, her voice smooth, yet carrying a subtle authority. She walks toward the door at the far end of the hallway, her heels clicking softly against the floor before she opens it with a graceful motion.

The room she reveals is everything you'd expect and more, a serene, almost ethereal space. The soft, golden light from a chandelier above illuminates the room, casting warm shadows across the floor and highlighting the luxurious details of the décor. The walls are lined with plush velvet curtains in deep, rich tones, and the polished wood floors gleam beneath the thick, patterned rug that stretches across the room.

In the centre of it all stands a grand four-poster bed, its towering wooden pillars reaching toward the ceiling. The bed is draped in luxurious linens, plush, silken sheets in shades of deep cream and gold that shimmer slightly in the soft lighting. The canopy above is sheer, cascading down in delicate folds, adding an almost dreamlike quality to the space. The posts are intricately carved, their designs subtle but elegant, giving the bed an air of grandeur without being overwhelming.

A large vanity mirror stands across from the bed, its surface covered with a scattering of perfume bottles, fine brushes, and a few other personal items.  Agatha stands by the window for a moment, her figure framed by the soft light pouring in from outside. Then, with a slight glance over her shoulder, she turns to face you, her lips curling into a slow, confident smile.

"Make yourself at home," she says, her voice laced with both invitation and command. You try to listen to her order, perching yourself on the bed. “By that I mean strip.” The soft light from the window creates a halo around her, enhancing her presence as she stands across from you.

There’s no mistaking the implication in her voice. She watches as you slowly take in the room, the elegance of it, the softness of the bed beneath you, yet the quiet authority in her gaze makes you feel almost like an open book.

You hesitate for only a moment before standing, feeling the subtle weight of her eyes as you begin to unbutton your jacket, the fabric slipping from your shoulders. Each movement seems deliberate, and yet, there's a strange sense of freedom in it as you follow her quiet, unspoken guidance.

Agatha watches you silently, her eyes never leaving yours as she steps closer, the distance between you two narrowing. She reaches out, her hand brushing against your arm lightly, the touch almost reassuring in its gentleness, yet it carries an unspoken promise that makes your heart race just a little faster.

"Relax," she murmurs, as her presence seems to fill the room even more, her every movement calm, but purposeful.

You glance back at her, a slight tension still present in the air, but there's an unspoken understanding that whatever this moment brings, it's going to be entirely on her terms. And somehow, that feels just right.

“Let me help you.” Agatha’s voice is low, almost like a murmur, but it carries weight, pulling your attention completely. She steps closer, the subtle click of her heels on the floor the only sound in the otherwise quiet room. Her presence fills the space, each step deliberate, each movement calculated, yet graceful. You can’t help but be drawn to her, the way she commands the room without a word.

She stops just in front of you, her eyes locking onto yours, searching, reading you with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. Her hand lifts slowly, fingers brushing lightly against your wrist, as if testing your reaction. Her touch is soft but firm, a clear signal that she’s in control, but she’s patient, letting you decide how to respond.

"Let me help you," she repeats, her words steady and calm, but there's an underlying edge to them, a subtle demand you can’t ignore. She unbuttons your skirt, yanking it down quickly, leaving you in nothing but the band tee and your soaked underwear, a sight that was making Agatha drool all over you. 

You cross your arms over your shirt, reaching the hem before trying to reach it over your head. She stops you, grabbing your wrists. You cock your eyebrow at her refusal to remove her band's logo from your chest. “You want me to keep it on?”

She holds your wrists firmly, her eyes never leaving yours. The air between you feels charged, thick with unspoken words and a subtle challenge. Her grip is forceful, just enough to let you know she's in control. Her lips curl into a slight smile, almost teasing, as if she’s waiting for you to respond.

"Is that a problem?" she asks, her tone soft but with an edge that makes you wonder if she's testing your limits.

You stand there, caught between defiance and curiosity, feeling her presence loom larger with every passing second. You shake your head, her grip on your wrists never loosening. You look up at her, knowingly allowing your desperation to seep through your pupils as they lock with hers. 

“Come on, you've got work to do.” She smirks at you, laughing in the face of your desperation to be touched by her.

“What work?” You ask, eyebrows furrowed, not quite getting on the same wavelength as the older rockstar. 

“What work?” She mocked, her finger tracing your jaw, “You give me another orgasm and I’ll fuck you, make you cry, work you out until you’re begging me to stop.” She orders and you gulp in nervous anticipation. 

“I can do that for you.” You say, silence falling again and for a moment she expected you to turn and run away, but you didn’t. You stayed still, wanting so desperately to please her. 

“Good, c’mon then pet.” She gets herself on the bed, trousers removed in the process, her shirt unbuttoned allowing you to see the outline of her cleavage. She rested her back against the headboard and you weren’t prepared to waste any time. 

You shifted yourself across the bed, kneeling down in front of her. For the first time she wasn’t looking at you but instead straight in front of her. In curiosity, you turn to see what she was looking at, to which you saw the reflection of your ass in the mirror that she was looking directly into. You turn and purposefully arch your back lower so she could get a better view. 

Your lips gravitate back towards her inner thighs, her underwear had already been removed in the bar bathroom, but she wasn’t appreciative of your teasing judging by her hand on your head. In response, your tongue grazed her clit and a moan left her lips as you looked back up at her.   

“That's a good girl, show Daddy how good that tongue of yours is.” She orders through panting breaths as you hum against her cunt, making her squirm slightly beneath your mouth. You were determined to make her cum quicker than before, one hand slipping between your body and hers as you spread her lips apart giving yourself more room to work with. Her moan that escaped was much louder this time, a sound that was doing nothing but doubling the arousal between your own legs. 

“You’re getting Daddy close, pretty girl.” 

“Already, god I must be really impressing you.” You smirk against her folds and she delivers a quick and sharp slap to your ass, making your body fall against her. 

“Three strikes and you’re done.” She warns, your whimper ricocheting around the room, her spank leaving a harsh bright red mark. 

You were gasping desperately against her pussy, the vibrations of your humming rippling through her body as you could feel all the muscles touching you tense. This was a moment of confidence surging through you as you continued to move your tongue in the same tangled circles that were driving her crazy beneath you. You began to make sloppier movements with your tongue, allowing her to hear the way your tongue moved gracefully against her folds. 

“Oh fuck baby, you’re gonna make me-” She curses, a hand flying into your hair, gripping tightly as she grinded down on your face as her orgasm ripped harshly through her body, her entire body convulsing beneath you.

It didn’t take her long to recover, she pulled your head up and admired your skin, glistening with her arousal and it was a picture perfect image that was forever branded in her brain. You hum into a gentle kiss, her lips gently touching yours in an attempt to not remove any of her fluids from your face, wanting to see you drowning in her wetness. She brings her hand up to the base of your throat, grasping around you tightly making you dizzy as she swipes her tongue against yours. 

“Please can I give you one more.” You plead, wanting to touch her with your fingers, desperate to see how the woman would fold beneath your touch. There was a slight selfishness to your begging, knowing that you would get exactly what you wanted if you showed her the respect she so desperately wanted to see from you. 

She laid herself back down, pulling you around her body, your chest resting on her arm with one leg hooked over hers as you pushed her legs apart with your foot. “Such a people pleaser hm?” Agatha quizzed, but not complaining, she was usually happy enough to not receive anything, but from someone who could bring her to orgasm so quickly, she wasn’t going to pass it by. 

“I just want to please you.” You say, a faux innocent smile on your face as your fingers carefully brushed against her clit. She whimpered with sensitivity but you carried on with your movements, but her pussy was dripping, coating your fingers with natural lubricant before you moved her shirt out of the way, allowing your tongue to carefully circle her nipple until it hardened against your mouth. 

As you began to make wide circles around her clit with your two fingers, she shifted her arm so it was stretched just enough to be able to brush your clit every time you grind your hips at the correct angle. It was like fireworks inside of you so you began to suck against her nipple, quickening and narrowing the circles you made with your fingers around her clit but soon enough she matched your movements. 

You let out a whimpery moan, desperate for so much more than she was giving you, yet the contact alone interrupted your movements against her clit. She slapped your ass again. “Second strike sweetheart, focus on your Daddy.” You nod at her words, knowing you had to carry on. It didn’t take too much longer before her hips began to buck when you sped up your circles. 

Her breathing laboured as you sucked the other nipple between your teeth, you spare hand playing with the other, overstimulating her in the best way possible as she started to grind down on your fingers. 

“You want me to cum again baby?” 

You nod, her nipple still loosely placed between your lips as she added another finger worth of pressure to your clit, mirroring exactly what you’d done to her. “Yes,” You gasp, “Please.”

The sound of your broken panting voice, whimpers tumbling from your lips made everything too much and she couldn’t help herself as her second orgasm fiercly crashed through her body, growling at the sensation as she let go of you, her back arching away from your relentless touch.  

She stilled your hand as she recovered, looking desperately into your eyes and you could feel her domineering persona washing straight back over her as she yanked your shirt from your abdomen, chucking it onto the floor by the bed. She hungrily attacked your breasts with her mouth, making you moan desperately at the sudden contact. 

“You did such a good job,” She smiles, “Looking so pretty while you did it too, that deserves a reward only good enough for whores like you.” With that, she flips you over her body, planting your back against the mattress with an insane level of strength that you didn’t expect. She wasn’t planning on wasting any time, needing to taste you as you glistened directly in her eye line. “God you’re already so wet, I don’t think I even need to warm you up for my cock huh.”

You gasped at her words, but before they processed her tongue licked one long stroke up your clit, before replacing it with her fingers, circling your clit with one hand, the other trailing around your quivering opening. 

You were nothing but desperate, aching for the feeling of her inside of you, but she repeatedly teased you with circles around your entrance, until eventually, she slipped them in, just one at first, gently stretching you out with her expert, well practised hands. 

“Taste yourself on my fingers pet.” She demanded and Agatha’s fingers pressed in and out of you, gathering enough of your arousal to place in your open mouth, but she didn’t. You watched her eagerly as she sucked you from her own fingers, prying your jaw open with her other hand and spitting your arousal from her mouth, holding your mouth open and continuing to spit against your tongue, knowing your skill from earlier you swallowed as much as you could, but you were still left with a mix of Agatha’s saliva and your arousal dripping down your chin. 

She couldn’t help but groan at the sight of you, before she slid her fingers down your throat until you choked against her, saliva bubbling from your mouth now. She continued to fuck your throat until you were a spluttering mess. Her lips pressed against yours now, her soaked fingers sliding between your folds as your entrance begged for them inside of you, and you took them so much easier now. 

She pumped her fingers relentlessly inside of you, her thumb finding your clit and rubbing it aggressively, stretching you out and you couldn’t help but squirm and moan against her hold, but she kept you still. “You sound so pretty, Daddy needs to fuck you now.” She demanded, pulling her fingers from you and you couldn’t help but feel fucked out already, but you weren’t giving in now. 

“Play with yourself while I put this on.” She orders, shuffling over and reaching for the strap which she kept in her bedside drawer. You could barely see it, but you could tell it was way bigger than you were used to, but you weren’t surprised in the slightest. One that matched the size of her enormous ego. 

You did as she said, pressing two fingers against your clit, carefully applying pressure that didn’t match up to the way Agatha made you feel, but watching her pull her legs through the harness you couldn’t help but squirm and moan as you waited in anticipation. 

“Show me that pretty pussy baby.” She hummed as she turned around, the sheer size of the nine inch dildo attached to her waist making you moan let alone her words. Your hands spread your cunt apart right in front of her. She crawled up to you on her knees until she was between your legs, the position allowing her to tease you, dragging the head of her dick through your wet folds, watching as your body prepared for her. 

She locked eyes with you before she slid straight inside of you, gasping at the feeling of every inch of her forcing its way into your entrance, purposefully making you feel every single centimetre of her cock as it pushed you closer and closer to the edge. 

“Oh fuck Agatha.” You whined, her hands spreading your thighs further apart, her strokes becoming deeper as she aimed to hit every spot inside of you. You couldn’t stop the whiney gasps and high pitched pornographic moans that were escaping your lips. You wrapped your legs around her, pulling her into you, leaving her flush against your sweat painted skin. 

“Aw you’re so wet for Daddy aren’t you.” You nod in response, actually you don’t stop nodding as she pulls out of you, rubbing the head against your aching clit, before pushing herself back into you quickly, pinning your waist against the mattress and pounding into you. You couldn’t take much more of her thrusts, each one hasher than the last, something which you didn’t think was possible but she proved you wrong with every buck of her hips. 

You grip onto her shoulders, arching your back off the bed so you could press your chest against hers. This allowed her to draw messy circles around your clit and it was like she could feel you clenching around her cock. 

“Daddy, I’m gonna-”

“No you’re not.” She commands, pulling out of you and spinning you round by your hips, pressing your head into the mattress, moulding you into the position she wanted you in. “You’re mine, pet, you take what I give you and you cum when I ask you to.” Her voice was a continuous growl as one hand gripped your waist, the other spreading you apart before she spat against your entrance before pushing her cock back inside of you. 

This angle changed everything, your moans jumbled into the duvet as you felt your body being forcefully moved with every rapid thrust, her rhythm never faltering once. 

“Please Daddy, I need to cum.” You beg, turning your head so she could hear your pleas more clearly. Her relentless thrusting of her hips had you so close to the edge and you knew you couldn’t hold it anymore. Just as your cunt clenched around her dick, she could see it in your body language. 

“Cum now on my cock you fucking slut.” You did exactly that, your hands gripping against the covers as Agatha refused to slow down her pace. Your orgasm coursed through you harder than any you’d ever felt before, your moans became screams against each pounding thrust she delivered into your dripping, aching cunt. With a string of expletives and breathy moans you fell flat against the mattress, whining as you felt the emptiness consume you as Agatha pulled out of you. 

“Agatha, that was something else.” You spoke, your eyes only just opening from how hard they’d scrunched shut at the peak of your climax. When your eyes opened, the strap was hovering over your mouth, your arousal glistening in front of your face. 

“You’ve got to clean Daddy up, look at all the mess your slutty hole has made.” You moaned at the deep husk in her voice as you did nothing but open your mouth as wide as you could, allowing Agatha to guide her cock into your mouth, only the head was filling you up to the back of your throat. You began to suck, holding the base between your hands, not letting Agatha thrust her hips into your mouth. You let it go deeper, but not as much as Agatha wanted. 

“You can do better than that, I thought you wanted to be my little cock whore.” Agatha teased and you opened your throat as wide as you could, thrusting your own head into the length of her cock, allowing her to harshy thrust into your choking and spluttering mouth. Her nails deep into your scalp now, as you started coughing she went easy on you, slowly pulling out of your throat as your head fell back in sheer tiredness. 

“Oh sweet girl, you did such a good job.” Agatha praises, loosening the harness and tossing it towards the end of the bed, reminding herself to deal with it after she’d given you the praise you deserved. 

“I’ve never been fucked like that in my life.” You admit honestly. 

“Didn’t seem like it.” Agatha teased before she pulled your naked body into a deep embrace, her body cocooning you between hers. “I’m joking, I only perform best for my fans.”

“Oh shut up Agatha.” You laugh, the reminder of who she actually was came flooding back to you and you couldn’t help but feel the flush of scarlet red beam at your cheeks. 

“Well you’re the prettiest little fan I’ve ever had the honour of fucking.”

[callieisto]

☆ Kinktober Day 4: Aphrodisiac! ☆

(fem!reader)

Sam hated witches.

They were nearly impossible to deal with, mischievous, and most of the time, they had no real idea what they were getting themselves into. But the ones that did know were the ones Sam hated the most. Because they did stuff like this.

This older grandma-type had seen you and Sam when you came to interview her about some teenagers disappearing, and then claiming they spent three weeks in the woods as actual animals- squirrels and deer and rabbits. Due to what they claimed was a witch, and what the police claimed to be hallucinogenic mushrooms (or something.)

She decided you needed a little push in the right direction, and had drugged the two of you with an aphrodisiac in the tea she offered. Too bad the kids had managed to describe her only a few hours later. Dean had shot her in the head before she could really tell them what it did beyond the whole 'making you really horny' thing. The spell, drug, whatever it was, had taken its sweet time kicking in. He thought it would be okay. All three of you did.

A town over, after the burning and the burying and the ruining of spell ingredients, it had hit him in the car- and you moments later. He managed to tell Dean to pull into a motel and splurge for three rooms- because no way was he going to share with his brother, and no way was he going to share with you.

You were just- Well, you were... you were something to him, something sweet and perfect and entirely untouchable. Besides, even seeing you right now might cause his heart to burst, because you raise his resting heart rate by like twenty BPM just by existing around him, and he can already feel his heart thundering against his ribs. He's sweatier than he's ever been in his life, naked on the edge of his bed in the motel room with a hand around his dick.

He's trying to jerk off to this terrible cable porn, but he keeps imagining you between his legs, your eyes fluttering so pretty as you lick up the underside of his dick, over that vein at the tip that makes him shudder, and-

He cums with a little strangled gasp and a whimper, not expecting his release to creep up on him like that. He pants, eyeing the spot where the cum soaks into the rug. He thinks 'god, finally', because maybe that would make everything better.

But he's still hard as a rock. And his head is still foggy. And if he's hearing things right, there's a timid little knocking sound at his door, but that might also be a hallucination due to his brain leaking out of his ears. He's so hot. He feels like he's melting.

The knock comes again, louder this time. Sam clears his head enough to tug on his boxers as he stumbles towards the door, still a little shaky from his orgasm. He looks through the peephole, and...

Shit.

It's you.

He opens the door slightly. He just stares at you- you're wrapped in a bathrobe, you're squirming under his gaze, you're sweaty and you look weaker than he's ever seen you. You're so perfect. So beautiful.

"Hey," He croaks out, voice hoarse. "How are you holding up?"

He's never wanted to kiss you more in his entire life.

Instead, he opens the door all the way and ushers you inside. The idea of anyone else seeing you looking like this makes him feel an emotion he doesn't quite want to deal with, and the door closes and locks behind you. He offers you a weak little smile.

"It's, um, it's worse than I thought it would be." You manage, shrugging as you sit down on the edge of his bed. He winces internally when you cast your eyes towards the cum staining the carpet. You don't say anything.

"Yeah, it's... not great." He manages, running a hand through his hair. "I tried to do some research on it when we got here, but, uh..."

"You got too horny to think?" You offered, laughing weakly. Sam nodded with a breathless chuckle.

"Yeah, um- sorry about the porn. On the tv." He said awkwardly, moving to turn it off. "I thought it would help, but it really didn't."

"It's okay." You whispered, smiling as he turned to you. "I don't think there's really anything that could help."

"I can think of something." Sam says with a laugh, shaking his head.

"Yeah?" And you tilt your head and flutter your eyelashes. His mind goes blank, just a little. He swallows dryly.

"... Yeah."

Sam swears he has no idea what happened. It's like everything blurred together, and suddenly he was on top of you, kissing the air straight out of your lungs. And his body stopped hurting. And the fog cleared a little bit.

"Fuck," He rumbles against your lips. "Fuck, you taste so good."

You moan all sweet into his mouth and he gets dizzy, if he wasn't already hard, he would've been, because you're just so soft and so fucking wet-

He's rutting his cock against your pussy, and fumbling with the tie of your bathrobe. It falls away, and something cracks in his head because his tip catches at your entrance and the moan he lets out is guttural. He feels wild, he feels hungry, and he wants to fill you up with cum until it leaks out around him.

"Shh, shh," He hushes breathlessly, because you're mewling and it's so cute he might die. "Shh, I've got you, d-doesn't it feel better? You want me to make you feel better?"

You nod, lightly knocking your forehead against his, and he laughs softly. "Sam," you whine, and your hands come up to curl around the base of his neck. "Need you, please..."

"I'm here," He coos, sweet and soft. "I'm here, angel, I've got you." He pushes in, slowly, kissing all over your face as he does. Once he's settled, he takes a moment to pull back and drink you in. You're so pretty, so impossibly pretty, and softer than any girl he's ever been with before.

He thrusts, just a little, shallowly, and the noise you make is almost enough to have him cumming right then and there. He breathes out weakly, thumb sliding through your folds to find your clit. He fumbles, a little- sue him for being nervous- but finds it eventually, rubbing it slowly as he bottoms out in you over and over again.

You're whining, squirming, and- holy shit- you've cum already, just so sweet and sensitive for him, tensing and crying out and he has half a mind to thank the witch profusely because he never would've dared to touch you if this hadn't happened.

"You're so pretty." He breathes, and his voice breaks when he thrusts back in. He's trying so hard not to cum right then and there. "God, oh god, I want to fill you up so bad. Wanna see you dripping with it, oh god."

"Pleasepleaseplease," you beg. "Please, Sammy, want it, need it-" And with that, Sam's mind fucking shatters. He registers that he cums again, register that you cum again, and he's still fucking hungry, wants to stay like this forever.

He keeps going, working both of you through another orgasm, whimpering breathless little moans of your name, babbling about how good you feel, his head dropping into the curve where your neck meets your shoulder, and he whines like a dog.

The rest of the night is a blur. At some point, he thinks the aphrodisiac wears off, but his memory blots out a little ways before that. Waking up in the morning, he's still in bed, and you're tucked into his chest. His head is spinning. He sits up, and you mumble sleepily, and his heart clenches in his chest.

"Good morning." He whispers, kissing over your face. When he gets a little giggly smile from you, he smiles back.

And then he pulls out. A little flood of cum follows.

And Sam has officially been ruined, because he's going to have to ask Dean for Plan B and he's never going to live it down- but also, he's had you, he's never going to let you go, because you're just so perfect.

He'd endure a lifetime of teasing for you.

☆ taglist!

@adhd-introvert

[blindmagdalena]

Center Stage in a Gilded Cage (chapter two)

18+ 3k. homelander x f!reader. pre-s1. stalking, kidnapping, imprisonment, forced relationship, slow burn, somnophilia, drugging, eventual smut. AO3 | fanfic directory

You’ve been hand-chosen by a god; plucked out of your meager, mundane existence and set delicately into the lap of luxury. Your every need will be met, your every whim and wish made real. By any measure, it’s a dream come true. A life safe from pain, from toil, and from the crushing weight of choice. In exchange, all he asks is that you devote yourself wholly to him.

“What happened?” You ask, voice frayed. Your movements are sluggish, hands rubbing the disorientation from your eyes one at a time.

Homelander catches his own reflection briefly in the mirror across from the bed–making sure he doesn’t have a hair out of place for this crucial meeting–before his gaze moves back to you. “Only the most important day of your life,” he says, feeling as though he’s about to tell someone they just won the goddamn lottery. He watches you rise slowly up into a sitting position, never taking your eyes off of him. He knows that you’re nervous–can smell it on you–but he doesn’t worry himself with that. It’s to be expected initially. 

“You just so happen to be the luckiest lady in America,” he tells you, putting on his most charming smile.

“What are you talking about?” You ask, your confusion deepening. He can see the tension in your body rising as well, the pace of your heart lifting to a rabbit-like thrum despite the molasses thick haze of the anesthesia in your system.

He laughs softly, lifting his hands in an encompassing gesture. “I saved you.”

Almost instantaneously, the tense line of your shoulders droops and your eyes soften in a way that erupts a wave of butterflies in his gut. You look nearly ready to fall back into bed with the weight of relief that moves through you, causing you to sway slightly. He feels nearly delirious with the giddiness of the moment, his fingers twitching, itching to touch. 

“What do you remember?” He asks, daring to inch closer to you. His hand settles on the bed, fingertips nearly brushing your blanketed knee.

“I remember someone grabbing me. A man. He put a rag over my mouth,” you say, lifting a hand to touch your lips. His gaze drops to follow the movement. He subconsciously licks his own. He’d been such a gentleman while you slept, but that hadn’t stopped him fantasizing. He cannot wait to taste you again. “It smelled like grass or something. I fought, but he was so strong,” you say, a tremble like reverence or fear in your voice. Maybe both.

When you realize that his strength is yours, you’ll never need to fear it–or anything else–ever again.

“And then I blacked out. You saved me from him?” You look up at him with wide, watery eyes and he could almost laugh at how cute you look, cluelessly putting together mismatched pieces of the little puzzle going on in your brain. The breathless wonder in your voice–the way you’re looking at him with such hope–makes his chest swell with pride.

You’re in for a real treat.

“Sweetheart,” he coos, lifting his hand to give your knee a gentle squeeze through the blanket. “That was me,” he says, his smile broad and proud. “What I saved you from was ever stepping foot back in that dingy little apartment of yours again. From that mind numbing mediocrity and the tedium of your mundane little life. I brought you home,” he says, gesturing out to his penthouse with a grand sweep of his arm.

A pregnant pause follows.

He waits, but you still don’t seem to get it. Your heart is thumping wildly with no sign of slowing, and that brief flicker of relief has disappeared entirely, the line of your shoulders drawing back up tight. A twinge of apprehension nestles in his chest.

“Well?” He prompts, his smile faltering. “Say something.”

“I don’t… I don’t understand,” you say, gripping the bedding in tight fists. “You kidnapped me?”

“I didn’t kidnap you, you silly goose,” he half scoffs, half laughs. “I brought you home!” He says again, emphasizing the word ‘home’ as if it will speed along your comprehension. Instead, you look more confused and afraid than ever. 

He sighs, dropping his hands down into his lap. “C’mon, you could show a little excitement, yeah? I mean, out of the three hundred and thirty million people in America, I picked you. Those are some fucking insane lottery odds.”

“Picked me for what?” You ask quietly, a rasp in your voice that itches uncomfortably at the back of his neck. You sound ready to cry, which won’t do at all. This isn’t how this is supposed to go.

“To be mine,” he says, and while he’s still smiling, there’s an incredulous furrow to his brow. 

“Be your what?”

His smile thins alongside his patience. “My–mine, my girlfriend, lover, sweetheart, my-my fucking paramor, whatever you want to call it,” he says, that charming facade slipping as his mounting aggravation with your incomprehension creeps further up his spine. 

Where’s your excitement? Where’s your fucking gratitude?

“I don’t even know you,” you say, moving away from him to the opposite side of the bed, sliding onto your feet without ever taking your eyes off of him. You brace your hand on his headboard, steadying yourself.

Homelander stands, taken aback. “Of course you know me. You recognized me instantly!” He says, circling the bed. 

For every step he takes forward, you take two back. 

He’s bewildered by your response: he’s a goddamn hero, the shining light of providence beaming down on America, and you’re cowering from his approach like he’s some kind of fucking pariah, shrinking back against the mirror when you hit it, cornering yourself.

“You know exactly who I am, and I know you,” he says, uninvited irritation slipping into his voice. 

“I know that you like to cook, that you can’t hold your alcohol, and that the best part of your day is the little sweet treat you get yourself after work. You laugh at bad jokes and you watch worse television. Videos about sad animals make you cry, even when they end happy. When you’re depressed you shop online and look at house listings you’ll never be able to afford. I know you, alright? Down to your goddamn skincare routine. So just calm down already.”

Fuck, he needs to reign himself in. He’s gotten too worked up, and you’re stubbornly not calming down at all.

“You’ve been stalking me?” You ask, gaze darting from corner to corner like an animal seeking an avenue for escape. The horror in your voice, in your expression, churns his stomach terribly.

Relax. Relax. Give her a sec. She’ll figure it out, coos a much more confident voice in the back of his mind. He closes his eyes briefly, taking in a slow breath, inhabiting that same confidence. 

Everything’s going to be fine.

There’s no other option now.

“It’s–heh–it’s a funny story, actually,” he says, forcefully lightening his tone. He wants you to enjoy this story. Hear the romanticism in it. “I was on patrol, you know, watching for crime, or danger, people in need of saving–I do that a lot–and that’s when I saw you,” he says with a slowly broadening smile, hands lifted towards you like you’re on display. “You were on your way to work, and you handed some homeless guy a box of–”

“John,” you interrupt, staring at him with apprehension.

Homelander’s expression turns stricken, not knowing why you would possibly call him that. In his underlying agitation, he sees flashes of a cramped room behind an enormous door the color of fresh blood. His hands felt so small beating on that terrible door. His throat constricts, and he barely chokes out, “What?”

“John,” you say again, visibly concerned by his reaction. “The man I give food to, his name is John.” Of course it is. As common a gutter name as any.

“Oh,” he says, the muscles in his face tight. It takes him several seconds to recover, blinking rapidly. “Yeah. Sure. Okay. So, you… Well, I saw you, and you were rushing, working, and you’d come home, rush and work again, and the food, you’d–” Fuck, he’s lost the thread. He feels like he’s coming unspooled, an awkward mess spilled out on the floor. This is not how he wants you to see him.

If only you hadn’t said that fucking name.

He brings his hands up, covering his mouth and nose as he takes in a deep breath, eyes closed. He drops his hands in front of his chest, palms clasped together. He smiles tensely as his eyes open back up. “I’m gonna start over. Hey, hi, I’m Homelander,” he says, slipping into his stage voice without realizing it, speaking the way he would if he was addressing a crowd. “I’ve been wanting to meet you for a while.”

He splays his hands at that, as if waiting for an applause for his performance. You don’t appear to be of the mind to offer him one.

“Okay… so you have been stalking me,” you say, pressed so tightly against the mirror you might actually crack it. He resists the urge to roll his eyes. You’re just working yourself up now, focusing on the wrong parts entirely. He assumes you’ll be more reasonable when all the adrenaline in your blood wears off. The smell of it on you is terribly sour. “And now you’ve drugged and kidnapped me.”

He lets out a terse breath. “I–mm, I feel like you’re missing the point just a little bit here,” he says through his teeth, heat prickling his neck where his collar touches it, the fabric suddenly growing irritating against his skin. “I was not stalking you. I saw you a few times, and I wanted to meet you. And again, you’re not kidnapped!”

“I’m free to go, then?” You ask, arms crossed tightly over your chest.

“Yes, obviously,” he laughs, though there’s tension in it. It takes everything in him not to forcibly uncross your arms himself. He much prefers how you looked in sleep, or when he observed you from a distance. This harsh, closed off version of you is making his skin itch. He wishes he could start the take over, the way they do when he’s filming. “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. Ever seen Paris? Hell, summer in Italy is–”

“Home,” you say. “I’d like to go home, please.”

“Would you-!” His tone is too sharp, too loud, and he cuts himself off, but not before his volume makes you flinch. 

He sucks in a breath, bobbing his pointer finger at you. “You-mmm,” he hums, clicking his tongue as he continues to force calm into his voice. “You are home,” he says, giving into his impulse and taking hold of your wrist, tugging your arms out of that tight cross with ease. He pulls you behind him, deciding that if telling won’t work, showing will have to. 

Once you see it, you’ll understand. You’ll understand that all of this has been for you.

“Here, look,” he says, throwing open the door to the closet. Your closet. It’s lined with outfits he’s spent the last several weeks choosing for you. Weeks spent finding a balance between your aesthetic and his. You’ll have to match him, of course. He made sure that they compliment his suit while also carrying similarities to the color palettes you’re drawn to.

He spreads his arm towards the display, fingers twitching. “See? Yours. All of it–and whatever else you want,” he says, hyper aware of how delicate your wrist feels in his grasp. You may as well be a bird in his hands, hollow-boned and fragile. “The kitchen, too, it’s yours,” he says, gesturing vaguely off in the direction of it. His attention snaps back to you, laser focused. He gives your wrist a reflexive tug, fighting with himself to keep his own strength at bay.

“I did all of this for you,” he says in a low voice, pinning you with his stare. “Tell me you understand that.”

If there’s an undercurrent of desperation in his tone, he ignores it.

Your eyes are wide and watery, a deer caught in the golden headlights of all that he is. Your breaths come in shallow waves, and the terrible fear that radiates from you makes him want to shake you. Your gaze slides from him to the closet, flitting between the myriad of garments that hang in the closet. All in your size. Some of them are nearly identical to pieces you own, but manufactured by the original designer instead of a cheap knock-off plucked from a department store rack.

And still he can give you so much more. All he asks is that you love him for it.

There’s a tremble running through you. Your throat clicks on a dry swallow, and slowly your attention drifts back to him, sweeping him from head to toe, taking account of him in his entirety for the first time. He tenses. It’s a little strange to be so seen by you, but it feels good, too. He squares his shoulders, wanting you to see the best in him.

“Why me?” You ask quietly, your eyes meeting his. You still look lost, but what he finds endearing is the underlying conviction he sees. You’re always quick to move towards a solution. He likes that about you. He’s not sure what it is that you’ve decided, but it’s clear you’ve made a choice somewhere in your mind.

Because you’re like me.

“Because you deserve it,” he says, drawing you in at the same time he turns his body towards yours. “You’re underappreciated. Undervalued. You’re capable of so much more than the world gives you credit for,” he says, his grip on your wrist flexing. Every one of those glorified pen-pushers at Vought should choke for the way they ignore him, hoisting their agendas onto him while dismissing his ideas. “And you’re lonely.”

Your eyes widen a fraction. Bullseye.

Sensing vulnerability, he moves a step closer, taking hold of your other wrist. He offers both a reassuring squeeze. “You don’t have to be.”

Neither of us do.

“This is insane,” you whisper, but the inflection of your voice makes it sound like a question. Like you’re considering it. “You’re… You’re Homelander,” you say, as if that should explain everything you hold in your gaze. 

And I’m nobody, you must be thinking. Maybe you were once, but no longer. You’ve been elevated in the way only someone chosen by God can be.

“And you’re here. With me,” he counters, his own voice lower now, quieter in the intimately narrow space between your bodies, both hands wrapped around your wrists. There’s a flush crawling up your throat, warming you all the way to your ears. His thumb absently strokes your pulse-point. “Safe. I’m a hero, remember?”

“So, you’re not… going to wear my skin, or eat me?” You ask, voice filled with such dread at the notion he thinks you might have actually believed that was his intention.

He barks a laugh, shaking his head. “Alright, first of all, no more Silence of the Lambs for you,” he says, relinquishing his hold on your wrists to slide his hands up your arms, squeezing your shoulders. “Second, no. I’m not going to wear your skin. Or eat you.”

Well… Not like that. He can’t promise he won’t devour you, though. Pin you beneath the weight of his strength–he could keep you down with nothing more than his pinky–put his head between your thighs and trace his name with his tongue until you’re screaming it. The thought makes his cock throb, stiffen. He licks his lips subconsciously, glad for the cover of his cup.

“Okay,” you say, snapping him out of his daydream. “Then you want me to…?” 

It seems ridiculous to him that he would still have to explain it. He’ll blame it on the anesthesia.

“Do whatever you want,” he says, taking his hands from your shoulders to motion to the rest of his penthouse. “Cook, don’t cook. Read books, shop, get in arguments on the internet over fictional characters,” he says, swirling his hand in a vague gesture. “Whatever makes you happy,” he says, gaze drifting back to you. All you have to do is do it with me. “Pretty sweet deal if you ask me.” He offers you the sharp edge of a smile, leaving little room for discussion.

You stare at him for a moment that’s too long and too quiet for his liking before your eyes wander, taking in the rest of his room. The balcony beyond the threshold. The mirrors and paintings on the walls, the statues in the corners, the rich dark colors. Everything has been decorated to make the space feel grander, more open. No blank walls. No doors that lock. It’s his home.

And now it’s your home.

“Okay,” you say eventually.

His brows shoot up. “Okay?”

You look back to him, your expression difficult for him to parse. Despite years spent practicing and learning facial expressions–all part of his camera training–he cannot read yours right now. He would be more bothered if he weren’t so distracted by the spark of hope that flares in his chest. “Okay,” you say again, adding a small nod this time.

He exhales a breathy laugh. “Yeah? Yeah! Okay. Alright. Wow, that’s… that’s great,” he says, his grin wide and a touch incredulous. There’s a nagging feeling in the back of his mind, a sense of suspicion, but his elation smothers it. He had dreaded that you might face an adjustment period, be confused, that there would be tears or anger. You were really starting to get under his skin with all that talk of kidnapping.

As if he were some sort of common thug or criminal, and not a savior.

In his exhilaration, he cups your face suddenly. He feels your pulse spike in his hands, but his focus is solely on your eyes.

“I’m going to make you the happiest woman alive,” he vows with a soft gaze and an eager smile. He leans in close enough to feel your breaths on his lips, tempted to kiss you, but he stops himself. There will be plenty of time for that, and he doesn’t want to remember your first kiss alongside the acrid tinge of your fading fear. His thumbs brush your cheeks, learning the shape of them under his touch.

He’d been wrong when he first took notice of you. You’re the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.

Sucking in a steadying breath, he draws away, placing his hands on his hips. “Now… How about we get you a little more comfortable for bed?”

( chapter three )

[aquasoftware]

FIVE STAR MEAL…★ ★ ★ ★ ★!!

Synopsis: Married to the world's most judgmental chef also meant you feared him going anywhere near your not-so-shaved pussy.

CW: Not proofread ngl 😬, Chef! Geto, c*nnilingus, fingering, spit, praise, hair pulling, thigh hickeys, kissing, dirty talk, degrading (once), squirting, tatted!Reader, insecure! Reader, established relationship, hotel setting, you have a hairy cooter in this! Lmk if I missed sum!!

FT: Drabble.

WC: 1k || Paring : Geto x F!Reader || M.L

When your husband is globally known for having a nasty attitude as a Michelin chef, of course, you were gut-wrenchingly nervous to let him eat you out.

Every "What if?" Always scurried across your scattered brain whenever Suguru pleaded to give you oral, which you brushed aside for another day until the two of you were on vacation for your 1-year anniversary, somewhat far away from the girls, while they were at your parent's house.

Praying he wouldn't treat you like he did to other chefs that he worked with, spitting out their dishes and telling them that gobbling their food was like eating shitty toxic waste, eventually you at last mustered up the courage to let him know what you really desired.

"You sure you're not gonna mind it being hairy, or.. what if I taste bad..?" You gulped, slightly grinding teeth as fidgety eyes bounced from side to side, spouting questions at Suguru left and right.

Oh? That's what this is about; this only made him abhorrently offended; you’d think he’d judge his sweet wife and her semi-unexplored jungle. You've let him finger you a couple of times, but each time was bare since being hairy made you profoundly self-conscious. Besides that, Suguru definitely snuck a taste on his fingers, although remembering it tasting like nothing, he still was prepared to eat your pussy as if it were an addictive drug.

"Trust me, baby, I'm going to take care of you real good; you're gonna wish you let me give you head sooner." Suguru smugly reassured, folding his arms as a devious grin marched in on his face.

And whew! He wasn't lying whatsoever, going slow at first, pressing tender sensual kisses at the dime-sized tattoos in between your thighs, while you rested on your elbows vigilant as to what he was doing exactly, breath hitching whenever Suguru's smooth lips trickled closer to your core.

Your husband began to harshly suck at the sensitive skin, creating dark marks on each thigh, causing you to quietly yelp, achieving a light snicker from out of him running his soft hands all over your body as he exhaled hot, steamy breath upon your aching pussy.

"Sugu..." Whining at the way his breath grazed your lower region, subtly asking for more, too impatient for anymore foreplay, soon satisfied enough, he finally licked a thin stripe across your clit, forcing your eyes to instantly shut.

His tongue lapped at your pussy as if it were nectar, eating it like he was on death row. Feeling his wet muscle slithering above your bundle of nerves in circles passionately sucking it every now and then; body uncontrollably writhing underneath Suguru’s face.

“Oh fffuck.. keep going, mhmm..” Your lips murmured words traveling straight to your husband’s ear, providing the extra motivation Suguru needed to devour that cunt whole.

He didn’t care the next person would call him disgusting for having lots of pube hair tickle his pale nose; either way, he was still going to swish his head side to side rapidly, enjoying the way your hands found solace in his raven tresses half near yanking it out of his skull developing pathetic whimpers against your throbbing pussy.

Sort of becoming embarrassed how even little vibrations from his moans led to your back arching, not at all bothered by the cruel chilly hotel air conditioning slapping close to your fiercely warm body way too in the moment of Suguru’s lewd sounds slurping down a five-star meal.

Hoping the two of you weren’t too loud during quiet hours in the lavish hotel, there was a huge attempt to keep your poor cries reduced, but you struggled, especially when Suguru covertly added fingers without warning.

Opening droopy eyes, you stared at the way this man had two fingers inserted inside, pushing them back and forth in a come here motion.“Haah haahh, shittt, u—use your fingers like that.” Mewling as loud as a siren, his slender fingers wriggling inward your mushy tightened walls felt like heaven, such in a daze that your brain persuaded you to believe that angels were singing to you.

You swore nobody could pull him away from your cunt, but he lifted his head up, panting as if he ran laps around the world. “Dirty girl, you like when I curl my fingers like this?” Suguru serenely spoke betwixt breaths, mildly biting his lip while his almond eyes traced your frame, in love with how the cream on his fingers oozed onto strands of hair from your lower lips.

Throwing your head back towards the mattress, unfortunately too engulfed in pleasure to even answer an inquiry like that right now, his fingers continuously targeted your g-spot, resulting in a deafening sing song squeal that echoed all around the spacey hotel room.

“Hmm, I think I’ve found your sweet spot, baby…” Your man cooed as freckled, sprawled-out goosebumps formed on your arms, the tone of his voice turning you on even more while he proceeded to plunge his fingertips at the notorious spongy spot, unable to help but slam your legs around his head.

He’d be lying if he said it didn’t hurt like hell, yet his drive to please his lady was stronger than the pain pounding as of now. “Aht, aht, aht, spread those pretty legs, love.” He sternly ordered, looking prideful when you immediately listened, snapping your legs back wide like a can opener.

“O-oh my godddd aaah S—suguru,” Your lips wailed out; his spit stabbing your pussy running down your plump labia, getting more and more sloppy. Suguru decided to chase after your clit once more, not knowing all these sensations attacking you at once sent you over the edge earlier than expected.

“I can’t ‘m gonna…” You slurred as Suguru’s concentrated palm rubbed against your entrance, driving your eyes to roll back, legs frantically shaking as if they’d been electrocuted. So much was going on at once; you knew he encouraged an orgasm, but you couldn’t understand what he was saying due to his fading out voice, entirely overwhelmed with arousal. The fiery pool in your stomach snapped, bucking up into his face not noticing juices bursted all over your husband.

Boosting Suguru’s confidence causing you to realize he most certainly wasn’t going to let up unless you squirted again on the white damp sheets.

9/1/24 12:46 pm

dividers by cafe kitsune + @/rookthornesartistry

may or may not be inspired by Gordon Ramsay ☹️ leave me alone okay…

[fear-is-truth]

how do you think patrick will react when you try to break things off with him?

breaking up with patrick bateman .ᐟ.ᐟ

tw ; mentions of drug use, homicide

a/n: apologies for the word salad.. my brain is kinda fried from my classes. also he’s such a pretty crier

𝜗ϱ ┆ denial & gaslighting

his immediate reaction would likely be disbelief. the idea of someone rejecting him, particularly someone he views as an extension of his life, would be incomprehensible to him. this disbelief would manifest as condescension and dismissal, accompanied by gaslighting.

“you’re leaving me?” he’d say with a strained smile, eyes narrowing to slits. “that’s ridiculous. you don’t mean that.”

patrick wouldn’t process the emotional weight of your decision, instead assuming that you’re acting irrationally or that something external has influenced you. his need to maintain control would drive him to undermine your perspective, likely accusing you of being under the influence of drugs.

“have you been doing too much cocaine? or maybe those diet pills? you’re not thinking clearly, darling.”

this gaslighting would be less about convincing you and more about reinforcing his own denial. patrick lives in a world where his perception is reality, and your decision to leave disrupts that. denial is his first line of defense.

𝜗ϱ ┆ manipulation & desperation

as the conversation continues, patrick would pivot to emotional manipulation. while he lacks true empathy, he is an expert at imitating emotional responses to “fit in”. he’d beg you to reconsider, framing his argument that appeals to your sense of loyalty or guilt.

“think about everything i’ve done for you. everything we’ve had together. you can’t just walk away.”

if manipulation doesn’t work, his desperation would become more overt. while patrick is typically composed, cracks in his facade could begin to show. you might see a flash of raw panic in his eyes.

“you don’t know what you’re doing. you’re making a mistake.”

𝜗ϱ ┆ begging

patrick would eventually resort to begging, and this is where the irony comes in—remember the time he dumped evelyn with an air of theatrical superiority, telling her that she’s “simply not terribly important” to him.

“you can’t do this to me. please, don’t go. we can work this out—whatever this is, we can fix it. i’ll change.”

of course, he is incapable of real change, and his promises would ring hollow. but the desperation in his voice would feel oddly genuine.

𝜗ϱ ┆“i need to return some videotapes.”

when it becomes clear that he can’t sway you, patrick would retreat, unwilling to let you witness the full extent of his unraveling. maintaining appearances is critical, even in moments of personal crisis. with a curt, almost robotic tone, he’d excuse himself with his signature non sequitur:

“i need to return some videotapes.”

this statement, bizarre and out of place, serves two purposes. first, it allows him to escape the confrontation without completely breaking down in front of you. second, it reaffirms his facade of control.

𝜗ϱ ┆ private despair

once alone, patrick would no longer be able to hold himself together. the breakup would be a complete fracturing of his identity. while he outwardly projects confidence, his inner world is fragile and deeply insecure. your rejection would strip away the validation he relies on to maintain his ego. he’d cry—silent, bitter tears of frustration and humiliation.

𝜗ϱ ┆ homicide as a coping mechanism

but patrick is incapable of processing emotions in a healthy way, so the tears wouldn’t lead to introspection or change. instead, they’d fuel a darker spiral—he’d channel his feelings of loss into compulsive, destructive behaviour. violence is often an outlet for him, and your departure could serve as a catalyst for a spree of homicidal acts. (e.g killing homeless people)

[kumkaniudaku]

Me and Your Mama

Summary: Terry and Patrice learn more about their love through life changing news on New Year’s Eve.

Pairing: Terry Richmond x Black!OC

Word Count: 4,436

Warnings: Mentions of Pregnancy

Recommended Reading: Spoiled, Caught

Author's Note: We're at the end of Ficmas! Thanks for all the requests sprinkled in the middle. This has been a fun little ride and hope you feel fulfilled at the end of this one. Stay safe this New Year's Eve. See you in 2025.

Several mornings passed between Christmas, New Year's Eve, and their five-hour drive up north with no attempt to confirm Patrice's suspicion. She'd purposely avoided all conversation about it, preferring to push the thought to the back of her mind until she and Terry could no longer tiptoe around the growing elephant in the room. 

Moments after luggage was rolled into their downtown D.C. hotel room, the pair braced themselves for punishing winds and bitter cold in search of the nearest convenience store to pick up comfort snacks and three different pregnancy tests. Terry did the honors of selecting what he thought were the best options based on his research, while Patrice forced herself to take an interest in potato chips and snack cakes a few aisles over. 

She couldn't bring herself to engage. Talking about it, whatever it was, would make the dreams more real. And if what she dreamed wasn't true, she didn't know how she could pretend that all was well while her heart chipped and shattered inside her chest. So, she stayed away and let Terry put on his brave face for the both of them.

In the bright convenience store nearly empty as people prepared for a night out to celebrate the incoming new year, they felt like children caught doing something wrong instead of an adult couple on the precipice of discovering what the rest of their lives could look like. 

Terry mumbled through passive small talk with the smiling cashier, staying just vague enough in his answers to avoid the glaring topic of the day before ushering Patrice out of the automated sliding doors and back toward their home for the next few nights. 

Once they returned, neither of them spoke. Patrice slowly unpacked plastic bags filled with items, leaving the slender white boxes for last. 

She drug a fingernail across the box on top, then looked at Terry, who couldn't take his eyes off her. "I think I'm gonna pee by myself if that's okay." 

"That's cool," he answered, offering support with a weak smile. "I'll be out here if you need me."

Most of Patrice's time in the bathroom was spent staring at her reflection in the mirror. She slowly lifted the hem of her thick, cashmere sweater to examine her stomach, twisting side to side for the best angle. Nothing of note. The small bump that did exist was no different than any other day. At least, that's what she told herself as she ran her fingers along the slight curve. 

Unfolded instructions littered the bathroom counter, each saying a variation of the same thing: Pee, wait, have a minor panic attack, then check the results. Or something like that. Patrice's eyes were starting to cross from information overload. 

On the other side of the door, Terry stared out of the large bedroom window at nothing in particular as thoughts quickly ran in and out of his brain. He'd never considered being anybody's dad unless Patrice was on the other side of the fantasy. Maybe once or twice when other partners brought it up, but nothing concrete. Nothing this real, nothing that felt this right. 

Sure, it was quick. And sure, it was probably not a great idea to introduce a child into a relationship that was only recently recognized by the state as a legal union. Any boy, girl, or otherwise would be dropped into a marriage not much older than them and cared for by two humans still trying to understand life. But they'd be loved. They'd be showered in affection from sun up to sun down. He had no doubt about it. What greater joy than to hold a child that was half him and half the woman he loved with every fiber of his being? 

But he was only one part of the equation. Ultimately, Patrice was the deciding factor. Patrice and a collection of three pregnancy tests two minutes away from unveiling their fate.

The toilet flushing made Terry blink back into reality from daydreams of diaper changes and kindergarten graduations. He caught a glimpse of himself in the window's faultless glass before turning in enough time to see Patrice poke her head out of the bathroom for his attention. 

She fiddled with her fingers and rocked on her heels. "You can come in if you want." 

He nodded, careful not to appear too eager or unconcerned, and moved to join her for the wait. 

The soft click of the door closing sealed them into the room together. Terry silently shuffled into the room past Patrice to sit on the closed toilet lid and nervously ran his palm down the back of his head. He took a deep breath before looking over at Patrice, who'd gone back to obsessing over how her stomach looked beneath her clothes. 

"Hey," he spoke in a sweet, low tenor to avoid startling her. She looked over, eyes shining from suppressed tears, and found him looking at her with round doe eyes. He grabbed her hand and pulled her closer. "Come here, sweetheart." 

Sweetheart. To Patrice's soul, the word felt like warm chicken soup on a winter evening. She could never question how Terry felt about her. He'd been there to offer comfort through a tumultuous, frightening week. Feeling his large hands grip her waist to pull her between his legs grounded her in the right there and then. Regardless of the results, he'd still be around to kiss away the bad times and laugh with her through the good. 

Patrice lightly placed her cold hands on his face while he looked up at her, waiting for anything she decided to say. 

She closed her eyes and sighed. "What if it's negative?" 

"Well. We'll go out and drink champagne all night like we planned. I hate the taste on its own but know I'll love it on your lips when we kiss at midnight. Then we move on. Maybe have a conversation that we should've had a long time ago on the drive home." 

"And if it's positive?" 

Terry took a deep breath, allowing the words to come out in a mind-clearing huff. "We skip the champagne and keep the kiss. But we have to celebrate either way, baby. Time's gonna pass no matter what." 

For all his mixed bag of positive and negative traits, Terry's sneaky optimism was Patrice's favorite. A short, airy laugh came through Patrice's nostrils as she tossed her head back and groaned. 

"You're always so sure of things and I'm sitting here about to throw up my lunch." 

Terry rubbed his hands up and down the back of her legs with a smile. "I'm not sure of shit, really," he laughed. "I just know that we'll be alright in the end. This Gunny I was close with told me everything goes back to baseline. Don't sweat the bullshit in between. So, that's what I'm doing. Waiting it out."

"That doesn't scare you? The waiting?" 

"Sometimes." A quick glance down convinced him to slowly lift Patrice's sweater with one hand and hold it in place while he pressed feather-soft kisses across her abdomen. Kisses for her? Kisses for who he hoped lived inside? He didn't know. But he spoke against the area to communicate with whoever would listen. "But waiting always brought me something better than what I had. How could I not trust the process when I have the result standing right in front of me?" 

A rush of emotions broke the levees holding Patrice's tears back, sending a wet stream sliding down her hot cheeks. Terry wiped her face with the back of his hand in silence, the gentleness in his care working double time to soothe whatever thoughts and feelings were coming forward for her. 

When the short bout of crying had ceased, and she was left with nothing but her husband, a timer ticking down to mere seconds and a looming result hanging over their heads, Patrice ran her thumb along Terry's cheek and smiled down at him. 

"I love you more than I ever thought I could, but we gotta slow down, Terrence. I'm worn out." 

Terry answered her joke with a low chuckle that bounced his shoulders and spread his smile wide. "I'm with you, baby. That should be our New Year's resolution." 

"Either that or finally getting around to that budget we've been talking about. Might have to add a baby fund line item." 

"We got it. Don't worry." Terry assured before kissing the inside of her wrist. "Whatever happens, we're okay. Gimme a kiss."

Sweet affection in the face of potentially life-altering change offered some sense of normalcy as they allowed the world to turn into abstract concepts with shared, tender smooches. 

They'd almost forgotten what brought them into the bathroom until the harsh trill of Patrice's phone timer ripped through space and time, again placing them smack dab in the middle of the present. 

When Terry reached to grab one of the tests after silencing the noise, Patrice jolted forward to grab his wrist. "Okay, wait!" she panted. "I-I'll grab one, and you'll grab one. Then we'll do the third one together. Does that make sense?"

"Alright. Which one do you want?" 

"I don't fuckin' know! Choose for me! I can't do this, TJ!" 

Terry wore a crooked smile as he calmly plucked two tests from their containers and placed the digital option into Patrice's palm face down. He took the analog test and covered the result with his thumb before swallowing the lump in his throat. 

A deep breath rushed through parted lips. "Turn it over on three. One, two…" 

Three never came for Patrice. Even after Terry had uttered the number and turned his test over slowly, Patrice kept her eyes closed, waiting for him to spill the beans. She couldn't bring herself to verify on her own accord. He'd have to be her eyes and ears. 

Silence hung in the air for a few seconds, making the wait agonizing until Terry broke the seal. 

"Treecey," he called out. "Please look with me. I need you to see." 

A deep breath helped her blink her way back into clear eyesight. She didn't look at Terry or try to peek at the pink test in his hand. Instead, she flipped her test over with trembling fingers and stared at the small digital screen displaying a single word. 

"Oh –" was all she managed to choke out before looking up at Terry's beaming smile and tear-soaked face. "Does yours say –?" 

"Two lines, baby. Two!"

Disbelief gave way to unadulterated shock. "Oh. My. God. Look at the other one!" 

"You have to do it with me!"

Another countdown as they held on to the final test together preceded an excited flip and harmonizing reactions that could only be described as happy sobs. 

Patrice rocked Terry in a tight embrace while he clung to her, crying into her sweater's soft fabric more than he'd cried in years. An avalanche of emotions wrapped in disbelief that he'd been immeasurably blessed after his year started with so much strife. His losses came with gains ten times above what he could ask or think. 

His wife brushed tears from her already stained face before kissing the crown of his head and repeating, "You're gonna be a daddy, Pooh. You're gonna be a daddy!"

Emotions distorted his deep voice. "Swear?"

"Swear, baby. You're gonna be a daddy."

He wanted to scream at the top of his lungs, not caring who he disturbed. Then, he'd run down the hallways, through the lobby's doors, out into the cold D.C. air, and holler to anyone who would listen that his wife, the girl he fell in love with before he could legally drink, was carrying a child that might look just like him someday. 

But he couldn't get past sharing the excitement seemingly gushing out of his pores with the only other person who could understand his joy. He chose to lift Patrice up in the air as he stood tall, spinning her in a slow circle before gingerly placing her back on her feet and pressing his forehead against hers. 

"What the fuck," he laughed as he tickled her sides, causing her to giggle back. "I'm having a baby. With my baby!"

"I guess I couldn't beat teen pregnancy. My parents are going to be so disappointed in me." 

"Stop it." The thought of his parents sitting in their living room without a clue that their firstborn was miles away receiving such big news flipped on a light bulb in Terry's head. "Our parents! Should we call? We should call them now. Do you wanna do a group FaceTime or like a conference call or what?" 

Patrice watched Terry fumble around his pockets for his phone until he came up empty-handed and reached for hers. She pushed the device further away and shook her head. "Nuh-uh. Can we just…enjoy the news by ourselves tonight. I want it to be our secret a little longer. Is that okay?" 

"Of course, Piggy. Whatever you want. I'm sorry, I just - shit. This is insane. You have a baby in there. Should we tell them we're a party of three tonight at dinner?" 

"No," Patrice laughed, finding his unbridled excitement adorable. "If they cancel this reservation because you playin', me and you might have a problem, Daddy." 

Terry bit his lip and lowered his head to kiss at her neck. "Damn, I love hearing you say that. Say it again."

By the time they were approaching a swanky steakhouse on Patrice's long list of places to visit, she'd called him Daddy so much in jest that she almost told the hostess that that was the name on their reservation. 

Pockets of quiet conversation held over candlelight and crisp white tablecloths greeted them as they were led through the dimly lit restaurant to the table for the evening. Terry moved to pull out a chair for Patrice, but she stopped him with a kind smile. 

"I'm gonna run to the restroom. Mommy bladder is starting early. Order something cute for me?"

Her joke made Terry smile like a little boy until she was out of his sight and safely inside the ladies' room. 

Romantic jazz music oozing out of speakers concealed inside the walls like smooth red wine gave Patrice time to replay the day in her head, unable to contain the elation on her face as she washed her hands at the sink. 

Another woman, tall like a model and beautifully sepia-toned, applied lipstick in the mirror and noticed how she tried but failed to stop grinning. She smiled at Patrice before speaking. "You're glowing," she complimented. "I need whatever you've got going on tonight." 

Patrice chewed the inside of her cheek after a bashful thank you. She wanted to keep the words in and pleaded with herself to walk out of the restroom and return to Terry without uttering another word. 

"I'm pregnant," she blurted, unable to fight the urge. "My husband and I – he's the tall one out there waiting on me – we just found out that I'm pregnant. We were best friends over a decade ago, and I still can't believe we're married. Now, there's a baby inside me with half his DNA. I'm having a baby with Terry Richmond. Oh my God." The realization of her social blunder hit her like an 18-wheeler. "And I just told a stranger all my business. I am so sorry!" 

"No, no! That's incredible, girl! Can I hug you?"

Patrice didn't know why she obliged, but she did, allowing herself to sink into this woman's arms like she was an old friend and not someone whose name she didn't know. The woman rubbed her back and squeezed tight before pulling away. 

"Congratulations, sis. Happy Holidays." 

While Patrice received well wishes on the other side of the establishment, Terry gave his full attention to the cocktail menu as a server attempted to provide recommendations. 

"That one is a crowd favorite," the young man pointed out. "Is she a rum lover? It comes with top shelf Appleton Estate if so." 

Terry chuckled to himself. "She is, but she can't have any right now. We just found out she's pregnant before we got here." Further explanation caught in his throat. He didn't mean to offer up their secret. Excited Terry had done the talking, not calm and reserved Terry. 

He watched with wide eyes and an internal scolding rattling around the container of his mind as the server smiled and jotted a note on his pad. "First, congratulations! I'll note that to the staff and see if we can't do something special for you and your beautiful date. Second, no worries at all. We can turn that one into a mocktail and not lose too many of the flavor notes." 

"Thanks," Terry breathed out. "Hey, can you make sure you don't tell her I said that? It was supposed to be a secret." 

"Our lips are sealed, Mr. Richmond. Consider it a little something extra to celebrate the new year." 

Terry made a mental note to leave a handsome tip behind as Patrice reappeared from her time away. Her smile hypnotized him until she was close enough to remind him about her chair. He scrambled to his feet to take care of his duty, nervously pushing her to the table as if this were their first date. 

When he was back in his seat, he watched her survey the room and menu, taking in each of her features. 

High cheekbones passed down from a long line of majestic women. Soft, mahogany skin that mesmerized him in golden hour light every evening. Dark, expressive eyes that told the story of her inner thoughts, even when she tried to hide. Full lips he couldn't resist. The total package. Everything he hoped for was wrapped in one person. 

Terry sat across from her, smitten. His grin showcased all of his teeth and then some while she scanned the appetizers for something to satiate her peckishness. 

Prolonged silence made Patrice glance up and then double-take when she noticed Terry's one-sided staring contest. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?" 

"Just trying to remember how you looked on the second most important night of our lives." 

Sudden bashfulness sent heat rushing to her face. "The third," Patrice corrected with a smile. "Don't leave out New Orleans." 

Terry chuckled at the memory. "Baby, the sun was barely in the sky when you decided to disturb the whole third floor."

"It was time to wake up anyway. That's what's wrong with the world now." 

Jokes and discussions about the possibility of dessert before dinner dominated the conversation until their server returned with two drinks meant to loosen their lips and hips for the evening. A subtle wink between Terry and the server communicated all he needed to know without tipping off Patrice as she excitedly watched beautifully decorated glasses hit the table. 

"To our first night out as Mom and Dad," Terry toasted, prompting Patrice to raise her glass. 

Mom and Dad—parents to be—two bodies forming one in a few months—a culmination of thousands of experiences leading them to a fate written before they were born. The concept sounded so foreign yet so familiar. 

Patrice dabbed at misty eyes, sniffling out a breathy, "To Mommy and Daddy." 

Glasses softly clinked before she joined Terry in a long sip and starry-eyed gazes across the table to officially kick off a night of celebration. 

Or so they'd hoped. Full bellies caught up with exhausted minds and bodies once silver forks hit clean porcelain plates well before their planned 10 p.m. exit. They tried to negotiate the next move with each other: a little walk for digestion, maybe a minute to listen to street performers play go-go renditions of oldies their parents would enjoy, perhaps another dessert to keep the mood high. 

All of their suggestions paled in comparison to hearing the mechanical whir of the hotel's lock precede the door swinging open to a warm room. There were no crowds trying to cram their bodies onto a rooftop brimming with eager folks anticipating good fortune as the clock flipped forward on a new year. There was only each other and the comfort of familiarity. 

Bottles of Sprite from the downstairs market acted like expensive bottles of bubbly poured into scavenged plastic cups next to a collection of fatty snacks, and cell phones switched to silent mode to avoid distractions. 

Terry and Patrice two-stepped hand in hand to jams playing from the television broadcast, dressed down in comfortable clothes and sporting ever-growing smiles. 

Under warm lamplight, Terry held Patrice's hand over her head to help her spin like a wind-up ballerina before pulling her close. "What were you doing last year around this time?"

"Ugh, don't remind me," she groaned, a sour look making her frown momentarily. "I was in a bathroom stall breaking up with my ex. Then Phee got us so drunk that we ended up blacked out before the countdown. I still don't know how we got back to her house or why we were cuddled up in her bed like that."

"Sounds like the kind of chaos you three get into when you're unsupervised."

"Whatever." Patrice laughed before making her fingers dance across Terry's broad shoulders. "What about you? What were you doing?"

Terry let a wry smile creep across his face. "Alone and sleeping. I didn't think there was much to look forward to, and I had to work in the morning anyway. Don't even think I turned the TV on."

The thought of Terry sleeping in on the night handpicked for blind optimism drew a sympathetic look from Patrice. "We both had a rough go at it, huh?"

"I don't know, mine was pretty chill. You were the one missing chunks of time." Patrice took faux offense at his joke, slapping across his chest before they let off laughs that slowly dissipated into a comfortable silence. 

Terry rested his head atop Patrice's, his mind taking a winding road back to the beginning while she hummed a made-up tune to herself. 

"Fifth-period Forensics with Mr. Turner. Junior year. You were wearing little strawberries crocheted on a pink sweater and your hair in a high ponytail. Kind of like tonight."

Patrice looked up and tilted her head in confusion. "What?"

"That's the moment I fell in love with you. I'd always liked you, but that's the moment I realized that I loved you," he clarified. "I spent so much time denying it, tiptoeing around how I felt and trying to find you in other women long after we were done, but I kept coming back to you acing that pop quiz in a pink strawberry sweater."

Patrice chuckled and smiled, recalling the time when her feelings blossomed beyond butterflies in her tummy at the mention of his name into a full-bodied, ever-present yearning for his heart. 

Terry waited expectantly, longing to know if there was a moment for Patrice – if her love had a spark that rocked her world the way she did so long ago for him. 

Flashes of bright light and distant cheering cut in just as Patrice seemed ready to confess, stealing her attention for a second too long. 

She gasped like a child on Christmas morning. "Look, baby! We can see the fireworks from here." Patrice tugged Terry along, all two hundred plus pounds of him yielding to her will slowly but surely. 

He had to admit, the sight was beautiful. Bright flashes of light turning into whimsical bursts kept him captivated as the clock ticked down the final minutes of the year. He slowly embraced her from behind, needing to feel her warmth combined with his for comfort. Patrice watched in content silence, smiling to herself while Terry watched the show unfold from the reflection in her glasses. 

Two minutes left. Two minutes to cap off a whirlwind 365 days and march triumphantly into a new slate. Two minutes to release long-forgotten truths buried in the recesses of Patrice's mind. She leaned back against Terry and craned her neck to admire him from her vantage point. 

A jawline fit for a man meant to be showcased to the world. Piercing eyes that shifted and changed with his emotions. Skin marked with blemishes telling countless stories – some he'd share and others that would follow him to the other side. Full pink lips that talked her through good, bad, and intimate times. All the features that might grace a child not yet named and growing in her womb.

"Senior prom night. You told me you loved me, and I said it back because I always said it back. But, that time, it felt different. It wasn't like sayin' it to my parents or my friends or the stray cat Mama let us feed. A different part of my heart meant it. That was the first moment."

Terry looked down at her, smirking and silently encouraging her to continue. She turned in his arms and then took hold of his ears to rub gentle circles against them. 

One minute left. Seconds dwindling. She continued. "The second time was today. And I hope there's a third, a fourth, and one hundred more to come. I never want to stop falling in love with you, TJ." 

Terry squeezed her a little tighter as if she might vaporize and blow away if he didn't hold on for dear life. "Yeah, me too," He whispered, drawing closer to her lips. "Never." 

Faint voices shouting a countdown in unison floated through empty streets and up to the 10th floor to surround a couple preparing to embark on a new journey. 

“Ten…nine…eight…seven…”

An excited buzzing, nearly perceptible by touch, sparked across the city. Heartfelt 'I love you's' shared as one breath passed between Terry and Patrice just before they connected lips and tongues. 

“Six…five…four…”

Colors painted their bodies from the window, bathing them in light one last time from January to December. A final salute from the Most High. 

"Three…two…one! Happy New Year!" 

Endless possibilities coated in an extra dose of magic felt real for the first time in forever. A lover's embrace carried hope and a promise. They'd start anew in lockstep the way the stars intended, with an extra set of fingers and toes to usher through life at some point in the future. 

But, for a moment, Terry and Patrice stood suspended in time, drunk off the taste of each other, ushering in the new year the only way they knew how. 

Together.

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[i-am-a-bad-influence-writes]

P*rn ☆  Chapter 5, Drive me crazy

Masterlist Word count: 1.9 k Sylus x Fem!Reader

Summary: You have been following a spicy content creator by the name of Red Crow for some time now. Nothing could’ve prepared you for what would happen when he moves into the apartment next door.

Author's note: This one is a doozy. I was a little stuck and I hope this makes sense. Next chapter will explain a little more about Sylus' life before moving next door.

Warning! This story is meant for mature audiences. It contains sex, swear words, porn, smoking, intimate piercings, mentions of drugs, alcohol, mentions of domestic abuse, and other mature themes. Do not engage if you are under 18.

Mature content under the cut.

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1 pm and you're just now making your first coffee along with your breakfast/lunch. You're not used to late nights anymore. Not like you were when you were still in school and partying. Well, "partying." Aka movie night with your friends and making stupid drinking games around the movies you were watching. 

Lucky for you, it's Saturday. You've got a whole weekend left to fix your sleeping schedule. Fixing is a big word. Make it so that you've at least had seven hours of sleep before you get to work. 

While lazily reading Tara's dramatic retelling of getting Kieran into bed, you notice a notification. One that usually only pops up when Red Crow, or Sylus, posts but it's Saturday. That's not his usual schedule. Frowning, you check the notification. 

Red Crow liked your comment: "Raw, next question." 

You feel as if you've just shat out your heart. "Cocky," you think to yourself as you tap the notification. It takes you to the comments under the video from last night and that's when you notice it... Your biggest nightmare. 

You were horny on main instead of on your alt account and now he probably knows it was you. But now comes the real big question. Do you leave it there as a testament to your thirst for him, or do you delete it in hopes he hasn't noticed it was you to protect your sanity? You scroll a little through the comments and quickly notice that Sylus never likes any comments. "Shit, he definitely knows." 

Still, you decide to delete the comment. If he saw it when he was drunk yesterday, then maybe there's a chance he doesn't remember or was just fucking around on his phone. The moment the comment disappears from your screen, there's a knock at your door. You're not sure who it could be. Maybe it's Tara. Did she leave anything yesterday? Or Kieran forced by Tara to apologize? But he would go to Sylus’ house for that. 

By the time you're done wrecking you're brain, you're already opening the door and there stands the one and only Sylus. Suddenly there are no more thoughts in your brain, just the picture of Sylus in front of your door wearing grey sweatpants and a black tee that seems a size or two too small. You can see every muscle on his stomach and chest through the shirt. However, that's not even the best part. The best part is that he stretches and moves one hand behind his neck, making his tee rise up and showing the little happy trail that you've salivated over more times than you'd like to admit. 

'Hey, sorry to bother you but I'm out of coffee.' 

'Go to the store,' you grumble and try to close the door again but he pushes against it. 

'Let me try that again,' he says, a playful but subtle grin on his lips, 'I'd like get to know you better over coffee. Preferably at your place.' It seems getting your brain fried is a regular occurrence when Sylus is around and you are suddenly awfully aware of how you look. 

Yes, you showered this morning, but you aren't exactly dressed. You threw on a shirt and a big sweater over top with some absurdly stupid miffy pajama shorts. Your words get stuck in your throat and you only seem to be able to mutter out a weak: 'Why?' 

He chuckles in response, the sound rumbling through his chest. 'You intrigue me. I'm curious what's going on in that pretty little head of yours.' 

"He called me pretty," is the only thought that sticks and you want to hit yourself over the head for only picking up that part, but you remind yourself of the video he had made after meeting you. He must have ulterior motive. 'Nothing else?' A sly smirk appears on his face, like he had been banking on you asking a question like that. Like he had been practicing his response, and it comes out sticky as honey. 

'Only with your willing participation.' You try to keep your bratty attitude but it's hard when he is so damn beautiful and so damn close and so damn hot. Goddamn! 

'In your dreams, big boy,' you sass, 'come in before I change my mind.' 

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There's a tense sort of feeling as you both sit on your couch with coffee in your hands. He keeps watching your movements, almost as if he's studying you or stalking his prey. It makes you feel on edge and at the same time, insanely turned on. To push him off balance, you decide to ask a question that had been hanging in your head for a while now. 

'How'd you get into it?' 

'It?' He's teasing. His lip quirks up into a smirk again. He wants to hear you say it, hear you say what he does, wants to watch your reaction to it. You feel strangely alien in your own space. 

'Porn.' You try to keep a straight face, but you can feel your ears heat up the slightest bit, and he fucking notices. You can tell he fucking notices. He's noticed everything so far. It's so fucking hot and so fucking annoying at the same time. You can only imagine how attentive he would be as a partner. 

'I was doing voice acting for a while and got hired for some smut books,' he explains like it's the most normal thing in the world, like it's the same as any office job, 'and I liked reading those books and the reaction people had to my voice. So, I tried my hand at posting some pictures of myself to see if people liked my voice and my body. After that I kind of rolled into it.' He takes a second to study your reaction and then asks you: 'And what do you do?' 

'Interior decorating.' He nods. 

'So I should've met you before I started decorating my place.' 

'I don't work for free,' you retort. 

'Neither do I,' he says, that damn smirk on his face again, 'but your reaction was more than enough payment for that video.' You're sure you're bright red now. 

'I didn't request your services.' Why did you invite him in? Are you that desperate? He puts his mug on the coffee table and takes yours out of your hands to set it down next to his. Then he leans over you, one arm on top of the backrest of your couch, the other gripping the armrest behind you. Naturally, you lean back a little bit, tilting your head up to look at his face. He doesn't look predatory, nor dangerous. In fact, you feel like if you would say no right now, he would go home in an instant. It's strangely comforting. 

'See it as a free trial.' He is impossibly close, closer than a stranger should be. Then again, you're not really strangers, are you? You are to him, but he's been on your mind for quite some time now. He's toying with you, he seems to want you for some reason. Barely knows you but it feels so familiar, so nice. You feel desired and... sexy. 

'A free trial for what?' You absentmindedly bite your lip. A low groan slips from his lips in response, and he shifts his position on the couch. With one swift motion, his one leg is kneeling on the couch while he pushes your legs onto the couch so you're laid underneath him, your back against the cushions. His lips are next to your ear now. 

'Worship,' he growls and ever so gently takes your earlobe between his teeth. You whimper in surprise. He lets go and moves on to your neck, leaving a trail of kisses down to your collarbones. 'Pleasure.' The hand that was on the armrest moves to your waist, slipping under your shirt and you shiver. 'And sex.' His words sound like a promise. A promise you would offer up your life for. You feel breathless as he leans back a little bit to admire your figure. That damn smirk of his, back on his lips as he sees your lust filled eyes. He definitely knows that comment was yours. 'What do you say?' 

'You don't even know me,' you manage to mutter. 

'I know enough,' he answers and leans down to press a featherlight kiss on the corner of your lips. A strange surge of despair rushes through you and suddenly your hands are behind his neck, entangled in his grey hair, pulling him towards your lips. 'So needy,' he teases, readjusting his knee on the couch to be between your legs, 'I thought you were worried I didn't know you. You wouldn't want to take advantage of me, would you now?' 

His lips are only a breath away from yours, his eyes stare into yours intently. You tell yourself it's just sex, yet there's something soft in the way he looks at you. Something you can't quite place, because he shouldn't be looking at you like that. You've only just met him. 'What are you thinking about?' 

'Why me?' He doesn't have a quick nor sly response to that. You can tell you've caught him off guard. His eyes widen a little and his head moves away the slightest bit, but you can't tell if it's because you've just asked the dumbest question in existence or because he does not know either. 

'There's something about you,' he tells you, his tone no longer teasing but as serious as he can get, 'it's intriguing and I want to find out what it is.' 

'Because I gave you a hard on when we first met?' He cracks. His serious demeanor disappears for a second, as does the sexual tension when he sits up on his heel trying to stifle a laugh. The hand that was under your shirt is now on his face, rubbing his jaw to hide his smile. 

'You've got a dirty mouth on you, sweetie,' he comments, trying to get back into it but you've already propped yourself up on your elbows with the cheekiest of grins on your face. 

'Shouldn't you be used to those kinds of comments by now,' you say, trying to provoke him even more. Truly, you don't know what it is about him that brings your brat out but you don't hate it. It's fun. 

'They're different when you read them on a screen,' he answers, sounding almost sincere. Almost. Only if you hadn't known what he proposed so sweetly just a minute ago. 

'Maybe you take me out some time and I'll try to behave,' you offer, feeling as daring. This is all so new for you but it just flows. There's no good reason for why you feel this way and yet it's fucking exhilarating. You don't want any of it to stop, but your ovaries are running your brain right now and you can't trust them. Not when it comes to men. They've shown that to you before. You need a second to calm down before you engage in anything that could someday become regrettable to you. 

Though you probably wouldn't have minded sleeping with him right here and now. 

Sylus doesn't answer you, he just hands you his unlocked phone. You type in your number, already regretting it when you hand it back to him and see the grin on his face. You've just given him so much power to tease you. Well, you should regret it. You think you should. 

In reality you can't wait for what's to come. 

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[elusivedew]

💌 | Cubitum eamus ?

✧ synopsis ⤐ it takes you 2 years from the minute you meet spencer to confess how much you like him, and it all happens on a random wednesday night.

✧ contains ⤐ friends to lovers but they both know what's up, s3 spencer who's been through a handful of shit, brief mention of alcohol consumption on two occasions!!suggestive themes but no straight up smut, spencer reid experiences happiness for once, reader is his only hope in life, reader wants him real bad and he knows. My spencer reid debut yay! Title translates to "will you go to bed with me?" w.c ~ 9.2k

Working at the BAU is not an easy job. In fact, Spencer thinks, working at any unit in the FBI is the closest thing you'll ever get to hell on earth. This feeling of agitation and exhaustion seems to aggravate every time he's working on a particularly draining case. Not only does the content of the cases get into his head often, and sometimes into his dreams, but he's also been directly harmed by the criminals they’re chasing. How can you remain completely objective about something when you become a victim too?

Over the few years he's worked in the BAU, he's received more harm than he ever expected. Drug addiction was not something he had in his five-year plan when he first joined the FBI. It's not something anyone who works in law enforcement expects, really. 

Needless to say, he's tired. The kind of fatigue that makes you bedridden for days. 

He also happens to be alone on a Tuesday night in the middle of June. 

The latest case he worked on took a little over two weeks to wrap up, an unsub that likes to take his time and has such a disorganized MO that it was almost impossible to see the patterns. All the physical and mental work completely knocked everyone off their feet, except for him. His colleagues all went home and passed out of exhaustion, and he’s still up. 

Spencer can't sleep. He's too busy thinking. 

It's something he does a lot, for his job, for himself, for the duration of his whole life. The gears have been turning in his head since his very first word, the minute ‘mama’ was out of his baby mouth, he’d been tasked with the weight of the whole fucking universe. The price of knowing so much from a young age has cost him a lot. And tonight, it specifically costs him his peace, his right to pass out after a long day of work. 

And he'd love, more than anything, to have an off button somewhere inside. But because that hasn't been invented yet, and his nervous system feels like it's on fire, he's still up by the time it's 10 pm. It’s not late, objectively, but he’s been home for more than three hours now. He tried a lot of sleep remedies— herbal tea, audiobooks, aroma therapy, hell, even exercising to tire himself out, but all of them failed. And now he's just left with sore muscles and an even more tired brain. 

By the time it's 11 pm, he's lying on his couch, feeling like death. His head is pounding with the feeling of an oncoming migraine, and he knows that he’s in for a particularly long night.

That's when his phone rings, and because he’s so alert and so sensitive to stimuli at the moment, he almost kicks it off the coffee table. But he doesn’t do that, because he’s still a little sane despite everything.

Instead, he reaches over and checks the contact name, and his whole face lights up. He feels absolutely ridiculous for not making this call first, because his nervous system is now very much alive— and not in a way that makes him feel like an overheating microwave, no, this is a good thing. And good things don’t happen to him often. He runs his hand through his hair, a nervous habit, and picks up the call. 

Suddenly being awake doesn't feel so bad. 

“Agent Reid.”

Your voice comes through the phone like a cool breeze of air during the grueling heat of June. He finds himself relaxing a little, releasing tension he didn't know he had in his muscles when he was so distracted just a few minutes before.

“I'm begging you to stop calling me that.” 

“Aww, why not? I like feeling like your boss,” you're smiling on the other end, he can hear it, “what's his name again? Aaron?” 

He rubs his temple with a smile he can't fight off, “That's agent Hotchner to you.” 

You laugh and he feels proud of himself for eliciting such a pleasant sound out of you. He's immediately thinking of other ways to get that sound out again. If Morgan could see him now, he'd never let him hear the end of it. 

The good thing about you and Spencer is that no one knows. Not his colleagues, not your friends, not your families. That's the good thing, you get to keep this precious thing between the two of you. The bad thing is that you're not really together. You're not even romantically involved, you've never uttered the four-letter L-word around each other (like or love, both), and you don't even really flirt with each other. 

To put it into simple words, you and Spencer are just friends. 

But friends who relieve each other's stress nonetheless, and god knows Spencer needs that right now. 

“You're back from your recent trip, right?” You ask, audibly crunching on something. It sounds like you're also lying on your couch, he wonders if you were going through something similar when you decided to pick up the phone and call.

“Yeah, thank god.” 

“I take it that it wasn't a very good one then? I mean, none of them are good but, I'm guessing some are worse than others.” 

Spencer sighs, “You guess correctly.” 

“How are you feeling?” Your voice is softer when you ask, concerned, and even though he doesn't like to make you worry, your well-intended question is a very welcome sentiment. He’s almost relieved knowing that there's someone who'll always ask, someone who'll always notice. 

“Not very good. Tired.” It's a short answer, but he knows you understand. You've understood him for a very long time now, nearly two years of knowing each other. 

“It sounds like you had a very long day.” A very long month. “Why didn't you try to catch some Zs?” 

The way you phrase it makes him snort, and he knows you're proud of yourself for that one. “I can't, me and the Zs never had a very good relationship. Trust me, if I could turn my brain off, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.” 

You hum, “Do you wanna talk about it? I could give you some very valuable, life-changing insight, maybe you'll be able to go to sleep after.” 

He smiles, “I've actually had enough of this case, I'd like to talk about something else.” 

“Oh, I can definitely do that. Tell me, what did you have for breakfast?” 

Breakfast is a terrible topic, meals in general, because you know that he misses a lot of his meals when he's on the job. You always lecture him for it, berating him for being so skinny at his big age, but it's always underlined by concern. He knows you worry about him, he wouldn't blame you. 

“Not much…” He trails off, knowing you'll catch on. 

“Oh honey, I know your eating and sleeping habits are fucked, but can't you at least lie to me?” 

The way you call him honey should not be making his stomach turn like that. 

“I could never lie to you.” 

“You literally just did.” 

You both laugh and he's so, so glad you called. If he didn't think you were asleep he'd have called you first. 

“Okay well, I didn't ask that question to find out something I already know. I asked because remember that café we were constantly visiting before you went on this trip? They finally brought the chocolate chip cookies back.” 

The chocolate chip cookies case (the quadruple c) is a very vital issue in your relationship with Spencer. Because for weeks, the both of you have been visiting that place close to your apartment, hoping to get some chocolate chip cookies, only to be met by raisins. It was a very devastating experience for both of you, having to settle for something else on the menu every time. But now it’s okay! The chocolate chip cookies are back. 

Spencer is so glad he's done with his silly criminal case so he can focus on the real problems at hand.

“And I was thinking, if you're not too tired tomorrow, should we have breakfast together?” 

It's sweet, it's earnest, it's you.

It's such a characteristic gesture, asking him to have breakfast with you after particularly draining cases, checking on him as soon as you can tell he's home, and sounding so sweet and concerned over the phone when you know he's feeling down. It’s the small, thoughtful actions coming from you that have helped him keep it together so far. 

And the feelings that thought brings out in him lead him to realize, in those few seconds, that he liked you much more than he planned on. Not that he ever planned to like you in the first place, but he thought it was a small crush that would eventually go away, it’s happened before with the pretty women he befriends, and he didn’t think this time would be different. 

But it was, and now he’s totally screwed because he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to say no to you. 

“Absolutely, I can't wait to have those chocolate cookies again.” 

You're ecstatic over his response, your tone picking up about 3 octaves when you jump to discussing the other plans you have this week. Your favorite artist is releasing an album soon, your favorite game is finally available at the video game store, the finale of that show you've been talking to him about is airing in two days, and it seems like your life is full of positive sequences.

The juxtaposition between what he sees at work and the enthusiasm you bring into his life almost gives him a headache, but it could very well be sleep deprivation. He wonders if all the misfortunes that have happened to him are the evil equivalents of the things you brought into his life. 

But if all the bad things that have happened to him and around him got compensated by you, he doesn't find it such a bad tradeoff. Because meeting you on a random Monday night and somehow catching your attention enough for you to leave him your number— even when he was so frazzled by the need for coffee so he could grind out some paperwork before his deadline— it feels like he used up all his luck on that fateful encounter.

And having someone he could always meet up with, outside of work, has been very grounding. 

You talk his ears off for the rest of the night, rambling about one thing or the other until his eyelids get heavy again, and he feels tired enough to sleep. You tell him that's been your plan all along and wish him a good night. 

Later, when he’s under the covers of his bed, drifting off to sleep, for a few minutes his brain isn't aggravating him with the thoughts that have been haunting him all day. For a few minutes, all he can think about is you.

He is so fucked.

Emily Prentiss is a very smart agent. 

She’s been told that ever since she was a little girl, and though it was often complimentary, people sucking up to her mom and whatnot, it was never a complete lie. She grew up thirsty for knowledge, mastering everything she could get her hands on, and even as an adult with a grown up job, she continues to excel at what she does

But then, if she's so smart, why the hell can she not figure out why Spencer Reid is so giddy while doing his paperwork? 

It may have to do with the fact that it's Spencer, and that kid has always been a little perplexing to her. He's bright and brilliant, but she could never truly understand how his mind works. But, at the same time, there's such a thing as habits, and Spencer is not typically so smiley while doing paperwork. No one is smiley while doing paperwork in this line of work, because it makes you relive the nightmares. For goodness’s sake, this is the behavioral analysis unit, and Spencer is behaving weirdly. 

It seems like she isn’t the only agent at the office who noticed the peculiarity. Agent Morgan stands behind her, his third cup of coffee in his hand, squinting at the young doctor. They observe him like a wild animal in his natural habitat; had they not been so tired from all the work, they would’ve been picking on him by now.

When Emily feels her presence behind him, she turns around, and they exchange a mutual look of understanding. They've never seen Reid act like that in the time that they’ve worked together, and they know one thing that they've never seen him experience during that time either. 

They realize it at the same time, and Morgan nearly drops his coffee. 

Spencer Reid is in love.

There have been many misfortunes in the 25 years that you've been on this earth, and you're convinced that a lot of them have been aimed at you. You're the only person who has ever suffered that much during your whole life, it's a known fact. It's a fact that you like to remind Spencer of, to make him feel better about his work, and when he laughs at it, you remind him that people called Jesus a liar too.

You've been through a lot of suffering, but the task of getting dressed before Spencer knocks on your door in approximately ten minutes may just be the worst thing that's ever happened to you.

He thinks that just because he has a day off, he could pressure you into a sudden— very much unplanned— date? He thinks that shooting you a text to get dressed so you can go to the record store and then have dinner only twenty minutes before you're supposed to do the aforementioned activities is allowed? He's absolutely right, and you hate him for it. 

Not that it's really a date, you know you and Spencer have never crossed that line, but it feels like it. Especially if he's making you feel like a teenage girl high on hormones having her very first crush. Her very first date. The particular action you're thinking about has to be kept to yourself, just so you don't jinx it. 

You really shouldn't be thinking about that when you still haven't figured out which outfit to wear. More thinking about clothes, less thinking about boys. Specifically one boy. 

It takes all your willpower and energy to finish getting ready in those ten minutes. You settle for your most comfortable pair of jeans and a white button-down with a vest over it, and for good measure, you throw your coat on— the long beige-brown trench coat that makes you feel like you're Sherlock Holmes about to solve a crime. You realize that it's very fitting for an outing with a profiler, he's kind of like Sherlock Holmes if you think about it. 

It's fall now, and it's much more chilly. You hope your precious profiler brought his own coat because, as much as you care for him, you won't be lending him yours.

When he rings your doorbell, you're finishing up and tossing the rest of the necessities into your bag. You make him wait for a minute, to avoid seeming eager, and then make your way to the door.

The minute you lay your eyes on him, you feel sick to your stomach.

Spencer Reid is beautiful, this is a fact that you've known ever since you met. He pulls off the dorky yet hot look so well, with that stupid smile of his when he talks like a smartass. And you're reminded of this every time you see him, the fact that he's so adorable that it physically hurts to keep your hands off him all the time. Tonight is no different, he's dressed in a dark button-down with a brown vest over it, covered by a beige coat that contrasts the dark colors beautifully. It takes you a couple seconds to realize you're wearing similar outfits, almost like a matching couple.

“Copycat.” You accuse, fighting off a smile with warm cheeks. He grins in retaliation, “Hello to you too.”

God, he’s beautiful. In the dim light of your apartment's entrance, you catch the gleam of his eyes. They're warm, earthy, and familiar, you don't think you'd ever stop staring at his eyes if you had the chance to do it without looking crazy. His eyelashes are unfairly long, and his light brown hair forms waves around his face like a frame around an artwork. He always tucks a few stray strands behind his ear, and you always mess it up for him– which is something you do for two reasons, you like annoying him, and you desperately want to touch his hair. It’s just simply unfair for him to be born that beautiful. 

He seems to notice you staring because his cheeks are a little pink, and he has a little bashful smile on his face. “Ready to go?” He scans your form like the little detective he is, “Looks like you could get ready in 20 minutes after all.” 

Now you remember why you were so annoyed at him, good looks be damned. 

“Oh shut up, never do that again.” 

“Or what? You'll cuss me over text messages again? How will I ever live with that.” 

His shy smile is replaced with a smug grin, and you hate to admit it, but it's one of your favorite looks on him. Because Spencer isn't always able to genuinely smile like that, he's usually stressed about one thing or the other; and knowing him, he's always reliving some terrible event that happened in the past two years, and sometimes even further back in time. So while his amusement comes at your expense, you'd rather see him smiling like this all the time. 

“God, you're so mean to me.” 

Even though you mean to sound stern, you can't hide your smile. 

You pick up your keys from the hanger by the door and toss them into your handbag, he follows your movements with his eyes, “that's not true. I'm always so nice to you, sometimes a little too nice.” 

You lock your door behind you and give him a fake offended look, “You could never be too nice to me. Let's go, agent Reid. We've got a long night ahead of us.” 

Then you're strutting ahead of him, motioning for him to follow you like a helpless little intern. Even though he rolls his eyes and laughs in disbelief, he ends up following you anyway.

‘Albert’s records’ has been your favorite record store since you moved into your apartment in Quantico— and not only because you’ve met Albert, the sweetest little old man to ever exist, but also because Spencer always looks mystified inside the store. It’s like something about vintage things just makes him tick. 

You're checking out vinyls that are selling for discounted prices, old pieces of famous artists and commonly known albums, while he's looking at the posters on the walls, admiring the artistic work of the rustic-looking store. He’s always trailing behind you, and you don't mind because it makes you feel safe and cared for. You didn't know being trailed by an FBI agent could feel so comforting. 

Your eyes catch on a certain record, and you turn around, “Hey, Spencer.” 

He stops eyeing the posters on the wall and turns to you, hair falling over his shoulders adorably. 

“What do you think of this?” 

You're holding a classic black Billy Joel vinyl in your hand, careful not to hold it too tightly. It's his 1977 release of The Stranger, an album you're not too familiar with. You've only listened to Vienna and a few other songs. Spencer eyes the cover carefully like it triggers a memory deep inside his brain. You're expecting him to go on a tangent about Billy Joel and 70s music, but you're instead met by a very sentimental response. 

“My mom loved that one.” 

He's quiet, using that careful but lost tone of voice, and you worry that you accidentally triggered something unpleasant. You knew Spencer had a complicated relationship with his parents, namely his mother. On the rare occasion where he had a few too many drinks, he spilled a lot more than he intended to. Drunk Spencer was always so painfully honest and you admired how easily his filter would come off a few drinks in, but you never wanted him to feel embarrassed by it. On those particularly emotional nights— after he calls you to pick him up because he's too drunk to drive— you would listen to him ramble the whole drive to your apartment, force him to stay over so you can take care of his pounding headache in the morning, and hold him until he passes out on your couch like a partying college student. 

Something he’s never been before.

Those incidents have led you to know more about Spencer than he ever thought he could share, and one of those sensitive topics just happens to be his mom. It's not an uncomfortable topic, you've talked about it before when he's not too drunk to realize what's going on. Even though it was hard for him at first, talking about it became easier the more he shared, you understood more and more things without him telling you. 

And because you’ve talked about it, you're not scared of his response when you ask with a lighthearted smile, “is that a bad thing?” 

That seems to bring him back to earth, and he gives you a reassuring smile, “No, not at all, just brought me back to some memories I'd honestly forgotten about.” 

You hold the record to your chest, almost certain that you're going to buy it now, “Well would you like to make some new memories in relation to this record?” 

Would you like to come to my apartment and listen to it with me?

“Yeah, I'd love to.” He smiles in a way that makes you feel a little lightheaded, knowing he's comfortable sharing this much of himself with you. It's so intimate, knowing that in this public store, you're still sharing private moments that no one else knows about.

You’re about to go back to checking out vinyls, trying to conceal the giddy feeling bubbling in your chest, when a high-pitched voice intrudes on the moment you were having with Spencer. 

“Oh my god.” 

You both turn to look at the source of the voice and when you look to Spencer to see what this is about, he looks like he recognizes the source. He looks terrified. Your gaze falls on two blonde girls, one gaping at the sight of you, and the other being the source of the dramatic reaction that broke through the silence a few minutes ago.

Her blonde hair is styled in waves and she's wearing such a colorful, creative ensemble that you're mesmerized by the intricate details of her outfit. The hair clips, the makeup, the platforms that she's wearing, you wanted to talk to this girl so bad. 

And it seems like you're in luck today, because she's immediately rushing to your side with wide mesmerized eyes.

“Wonderboy, you've been hiding her from us for how long exactly?” 

You're guessing “wonderboy” is Spencer since she seems to be his friend and your chest feels warm knowing his friends nickname him such cute things. Spencer deserves to be known for all his good traits after all, and he sure as hell is your boy of wonder. 

“Garcia, please, I'm begging you to act normal about this right now.” He mutters, trying his best to keep this conversation quiet.

She shakes her head, “This is the most normal I can act about you hiding a girl from us.” Then she turns to you again, extending her arm for you to shake. You eagerly extend yours back. “Penelope Garcia, tech analyst at the FBI, and genius boy's co-worker. Oh and, your source for any dirt you want on genius Reid over here.” 

That explains how someone like her is in Spencer's social circle, but it doesn't explain how someone so bubbly could work at such a gloomy unit. Working for the government when she should be at the club? It's a crime to you. 

“They're keeping a gem like you in a dark, creepy room to dig up information for them?” 

You honestly didn't know you could commit such flattery and Spencer is looking at you in disbelief, but she giggles at your poorly concealed flirting and you feel proud of yourself. 

“Oh, wonder boy, how did you ever snag a wonderful girl like her.” 

Spencer is blushing so hard at this point you could probably fry an egg on his face. You're introducing yourself to Penelope, filling her in on your occupation, when the other blonde introduces herself as Jennifer Jareau, JJ for short, and she's even more excited to meet you. 

She's also heavily pregnant, and you hope that she's currently on maternity leave. 

“We were looking for more records that this little guy here could listen to, it's incredibly engaging to include him in our vinyl pick-out process.” JJ rubs her stomach as she explains and you're so fascinated by the idea of childbearing and birth for a few seconds that you almost forget that it's terrifying. 

“What about you guys?” Penelope jumps in, eager to put Spencer on the spot again. 

“Oh we, uh,” Spencer's eyes shift between you and the two girls, like he's surrounded and begging you for help, “we're just checking out the vinyls on sale.” 

“Yeah, I was honestly waiting for these discounts because I'm not selling a kidney for some records, you know?” You step in, hoping to take some heat off Spencer, because the poor boy looks like he’s about to combust.

You're also well aware that the two girls in front of you think you and Spencer are dating, but they haven't said it out loud and Spencer hasn't attempted to correct their assumptions, so why would you be the one to ruin their fun? You'll let them think you're on a date. 

“Oh that's so true,” Penelope nods in understanding, “it's like I just want to listen to music, you know?” 

You nod in understanding, you do know. 

And you also know that you're absolutely going to adore Penelope Garcia and JJ and everyone that you meet who’s involved in Spencer's life. Even though this meetup is so completely unplanned and coincidental, it makes you excited knowing you can prod Spencer about more details now, talking about work in a way that doesn't concern the cases. You’d kill for some office gossip that doesn’t involve yourself.

“Oh, Morgan is going to lose it when he hears about this,” JJ says, almost talking to herself. 

Penelope jumps to add more wood to the forest fire, “Oh my God, remember what he said to Emily? He was right.” That catches Spencer's attention, “what did he say to Emily?” 

“He said that you're all giggly at work because you're in love.” Penelope answers without missing a beat, and she says it so casually, as if she didn't basically strip Spencer naked right in front of you. 

You’re subtly stealing glances at him from the corner of your eye, suppressing a smile at the way he blushes deeply and looks at the ground as if he wants it to swallow him whole right now. Something tells you you're absolutely going to love Penelope and he's going to pay the price for that relationship. 

“Spencer is giggling at work?” You ask, like she just told you he joined a cult.

Penelope nods eagerly, “Oh yeah, I've never seen someone look so cheerful while doing paperwork, every time I'm out of my office for a coffee refill he's just there giggling to himself like he's hearing voices. Except the voices turned out to just be a pretty girl, which I have to say,” she puts her hand over her heart dramatically, “I’m so glad it did.” 

Spencer squeezes his eyes shut, the shame overwhelming him, “I'm begging you to stop talking.” 

Penelope and JJ are giggling, enjoying torturing him like this for your pleasure, and you’re close to joining them, but you choose to stay loyal to Spencer— if only to make sure he doesn’t get a migraine from all this embarrassment. But you're also just giddy, knowing Spencer cannot conceal his infatuation with you to save his life. Despite all the hints here and there that he definitely likes you, and all the discreet touching and staring at your lips when you talk —something you know he can't tell you noticed— the way he doesn't deny any of what's being said tells you that you're, at the very least, a person of interest. 

A person of Spencer's interest. Your smile is getting harder and harder to hide.

“Okay, okay, lovebirds, we'll leave you alone now. But trust me, you haven't heard the end of this, once Derek finds out, oh Spencer Reid, you might never want to step foot in that building ever again.” You nod eagerly, excited to hear more about how they’ll taunt him later on. They give you their rushed goodbyes as Penelope guides JJ outside the store, you can hear her quietly complain about leaving empty-handed when she came all the way, but your mind is someplace else, neurons buzzing with ideas of how to torment Spencer now that you’re alone again.

You turn to look at him, no longer holding back your smile, “so…” 

He immediately puts a finger to your lips, “Don't start.” 

You reach for his hand to move it away, giggling like a schoolgirl, “you're fawning over me at work? Oh my God, Spence, I didn't know you were that far gone, baby.” You hold onto his hand, as a way to restrain him, but also because you just want to hold his hand. 

“I was not fawning, they made it all sound so much worse than it actually was.” You raise your eyebrows at him and he continues, looking more flustered. “I was smiling, can I not smile to myself anymore?” 

You absentmindedly lace your fingers with his, bringing your joint hands to your chest like something precious, “You're smiling like a lovesick fool about me at work, Spencer, you're so fucked.” 

Your amusement is so palpable, and your cheeks hurt from smiling, but there’s also something else there.

Something you haven’t fully experienced before, not its rawness and neediness. Something that you can tell will grow in your chest until it fully conquers your whole body and claims your mind. You don't know what you'll call it yet, but it's something a lot like love. 

“Alright alright, I get it. It's National Embarrassing Spencer day, let's buy this record and get out of here. We have a dinner to get to.” 

The weight of his hand in yours almost made you forget you were still holding the record, handling it so carelessly just to bring him closer. You realize you're drunk on affection, and eager to have more of his attention for the rest of the night. When he doesn't make a move to remove his hand from your hold, only dragging you behind him to check out, you feel like there will be a lot of new developments tonight.

The rest of the night goes as well as you would imagine.

Despite your incessant teasing, you have plenty of conversations that aren't centered around embarrassing Spencer and enjoying it. You sip wine together while he tells you about the letters he's been sending his mom; apparently, he's started telling her about you. While you're surprised he's only just doing it now, he confesses that he wanted to wait until he was sure you'd stay before he made such a decision. Unfortunately, with his line of work, he's right to be worried about things like that, but you stayed anyway, and now his mom knows about you. 

And you have her favorite record in a plastic bag that you carry on the way home. 

When his car pulls up to your building, you're hesitant to get out. You don't feel like the night is over yet. It was lovely and unforgettable, meeting his friends, learning about his mom, and having a very nice dinner together, but you feel like there's still one more topic that needs to be discussed. 

When you don't make a move to get out of the car yet, he calls out your name in concern. You turn to look at him and your gaze is so intense he's almost intimidated.

“Is everything okay?” 

You nod absentmindedly, too lost in trying to figure out what's missing from such a wonderful night. 

“Well, we're here. This is your apartment, you know?” You can tell that's not the sentence he aimed for, but you're aware that Spencer stumbles over his words when he's nervous. You don't fault him for it. 

You give him a genuine smile, “Yeah, I know.” 

Then you're moving to unlock the car door, the newly bought record in your hand, and you get one leg out of the car before you realize exactly what this night is missing. 

“Spencer?” You turn to him, he's already looking at you. 

“Yes?” 

Slowly, carefully, you ask, “would you like to come upstairs?” 

Your apartment is somewhere that he's only seen while extremely drunk, hammered out of his mind. You realize that this is the first time you invite him up when he's actually well enough to walk on his own, and you also realize that it means something to you. You hope it also means something to him. 

“Uh, yeah, sure? If you want me to walk you to your door, I'll definitely do that.” He's picking at the leather covering the wheel, cheeks slightly flushed like they’d been earlier. Multiple times during the night, you note how he’s always glowing red around you like a pulsating organ. Is it the slight chill of the weather or the heat behind your eyes? You hope it’s the latter. 

“I think you know what you want.” 

You weren't sure if he knew, but knowing Spencer, a line like that will trigger him into thinking about it so hard that he'll actually figure it out. You watch the gears turn in his head but he still looks confused, you hope that by the time you get to your door, he'll realize what you're talking about. 

“I'm not sure, but I'll figure it out.” You give him one last smile before you exit the car. 

True to his word, Spencer walks you up to your door after parking his car somewhere close. When you reach the apartment, as you dig for your keys in your purse, he stands next to you, looking a little lost because he clearly didn’t expect this. He fiddles with the ends of his vest while observing you. 

You unlock your door and get inside, leaving it open so he can follow you. You drop your purse on your dining table and lay the record down next to it, watching from the corner of your eye as he steps into your apartment cautiously, like he's stepping over booby traps. 

The door locks and you can't escape the conversation any longer. You also can't bear seeing him so lost, because god blessed him with eyes that make him look like a sad baby deer all the time. And every time he uses them on you, you immediately cave, because letting him suffer feels like letting a baby animal die.

“Spence.” You call, sultry and slow.

If you catch the way he slightly jumps at your voice, you don’t react.

“Yes?” He’s quiet, worried.

You lean back against your table, a relaxed smile on your face, “you know why I brought you here, right?”  

He swallows, tucking his hair behind his ear. “A woman inviting her date up to her apartment could lead to a variety of things, but most commonly it leads to either sexual intercourse or murder.” His cheeks heat up at the words ‘sexual intercourse’ and you want to eat him alive. “And I'm kind of hoping you didn't invite me up here to kill me.” 

You raise an eyebrow, the desire to tease him so strong and unforgiving, “So you hope I'll have sex with you then?” 

That really gets him. His whole face goes red— blood rushing down his neck and up to his ears. He opens his mouth to say something, but he can't. Instead, he just opens and closes it a couple of times, unable to articulate anything. If you were in a different situation, you'd have called him a fish, but you also realize something very critical: he doesn’t deny your previous statement.

“Spencer,” you call his whole name this time, voice low and heavy with something that alarms him further. “Can you come here, please?” 

He hesitantly leaves his spot, taking slow, careful steps to your side. He stands at a considerable distance, making sure he gives you your personal space. If he’d done this at any other time, you’d have been fawning over how considerate he is, but right now you want him as close as possible, personal space be damned. 

Feeling particularly brash, you reach out and pull him closer by a fistful of his shirt. He’s startled, but he lets you move him closer as if he were a rag doll, now you're barely a few inches away from him. Your hand moves to his neck, feeling the warmth that spread there a few minutes ago, the warmth that you caused. If it feels like it's getting warmer under your touch, you don't comment on it. 

It's the first time you've touched him this much, this intimately, and it feels like you've been missing out for the past two years. 

He watches you carefully, eyebrows furrowed as he tries to figure out what you're aiming for. This is probably how he acts at work, you think, staring at something until he’s able to break it open and decipher its message, will he decipher your message too?

You look up at him through long lashes, peering into his eyes, hoping to communicate something with your eyes before you can put it into words. You feel a certain need in your stomach, tying knots and constricting your airways— it's what you guess people would call butterflies. Right now, you'd call it absolutely torture. 

“Spencer.”

It's the third time you've called his name so far, and this time your noses are touching and you practically breathe his name onto his lips. This encourages him to put an arm around your waist and raise the other to cup your face affectionately. You lean into his touch, welcoming the reciprocation.

“I'm here,” his voice is low, more certain now, almost like he figured you out, “you can tell me.” 

You nearly melt in his hands now that he's using that self-assured voice. You love it when he's shy, but god do you adore it when he talks like he knows exactly what to do with you. The things you'd let him do to you would probably get you placed on a watch list, but you don't mind as long as he's the one watching. 

“You know what I want to say, don't you?” 

He blinks, the gold flakes in his eyes so striking when you're this close, “maybe I do, but I'd like to hear you say it.” 

He's in no place to be making such demands. He should be melting in your hands, not the other way around. You shouldn't be getting this weak at the knees just because he's using that stupid husky tone, sounding like he knows all your secrets. But, fuck, he absolutely knows all your secrets. He could probably read you like an open book— which you actually wouldn't mind at all because you've seen the way his hands stroke the pages when he's reading, and you'd love for those fingers to be all over you like they're all over those stupid books.

Your eyes glaze over with desire and you're getting impatient, while he watches you like he's studying your next move. Goddamn profilers and their dirty work. He should be getting dirty with you.

You mutter a quiet fuck and step back to separate your bodies; even though there's no place to go because the table is right there, you're at least not directly face to face anymore. His warm breath on your lips was driving you insane, and you brought him up here to talk, you needed to have this conversation. For your sanity. 

He gives you space, because he's always been so caring and so perceptive about what you need, and the gesture makes you want to bounce on him. You have to remind yourself that if you keep thinking with your lower regions, this will be a counterproductive night.

You realize you can't do this while standing up, so you hoist yourself up on the table, and wiggle around till you get comfortable. Your trench coat isn't bending to your will and it takes you some more shuffling to beat it down. You really should've taken it off when you stepped in through the door. 

The sound of Spencer's chuckle makes you realize that he's still here and he's very much observing your embarrassing fight with a trench coat. Your cheeks feel warm, but this is not the most shameful thing you've done tonight, and you're probably aiming to beat that record anyway. 

“Don't laugh at me,” you mutter, embarrassed but smiling. 

“Okay,” he laughs, “I won't.” 

“God, you're such a liar. Is everybody at the FBI full of lies?” 

He shrugs, “Depends on who you ask.” 

You laugh and you're so in awe at how all the stress leaves your body so easily when he's talking to you, it makes you wonder why the hell you can't just say it. One sentence, something he already knows, something anyone would probably know by observing you for five minutes, it should be easy. But as obvious as it is, you're also well aware that once you say it, it becomes real. And you can't escape It. You can't pretend like it's something casual between you if you get your heart broken, or if he feels like you're moving too fast. The minute those words are out of your mouth, you'll have to confront the reality of your situation. 

And you're scared. 

You're scared that once you say those words and it becomes a real living thing, you could actually lose Spencer. You could get into an argument later and it ruins everything between you, or he could fall out of love, or you could fall out of love. There are so many bad endings to a relationship and the possibilities make you hesitate. 

Spencer must've noticed that you're taking a while to speak, that you're too busy stressing out about it, because he comes close again (leaving enough space for the holy spirit this time) to gently hold your hand. It works like he intends it to. The skin-to-skin contact is grounding and you relax a little, wishing you could just melt into him and never have to go through any uncomfortable conversations.

But when you look up at him, and you're met with the familiar trustworthy eyes of the guy who has been your god-given solace for months now, you wonder how the hell you could ever rethink taking a chance on him. 

Even if the risk is terrifying and you're scared of ruining things, you know Spencer would be worth the try. Plus, fantasizing about a reality where it works out and you get married in a few years is actually much more fun than thinking about impending doom. 

You don't want the world to end before you tell Spencer the raw truth of your feelings, and not through subtle gestures or sneaky glances, you want him to hear the whole thing. 

You squeeze his hand for one final reassurance. He smiles and squeezes your hand back. 

“Spencer, I've got something very important to tell you.” 

Slow and stead. 

“I'm listening.” 

You lick your lips. 

“Okay well, remember how I told you a few months ago that there were currently no guys who were interested in me?” 

He nods.

“Well, I lied.” 

He raises his eyebrows, amused at the route you're taking, “oh yeah?” 

You nod, swallowing heavily, “Yeah, yes. There was this… guy at my job, he doesn't work there anymore because he got transferred because of ‘new chances’ or whatever, but he was working with me this time last year, you know? Anyways, he'd get really close to me whenever we were handling the same task, not in a sexual harassment way but in an ‘I have a crush on you’ way. And I realized that he was interested in me because he kept dropping hints and I'm, surprisingly, not that oblivious. I can tell when a guy likes me. He actually asked me out once to this new donut place near the office, but I declined because he has really bad table manners to be honest and, god I'm glad he's not working with us anymore because he'd hog all the coffee and we could barely find anything to drink by the end of the day— but that's not the only reason I rejected him, I actually rejected him because… because I couldn't imagine going out with anyone else who wasn't you, and I guess what I'm trying to say is- that's when I realized that I like you, Spencer. And I've liked you for almost a year now.” 

You're out of breath by the time it's all out, but incredibly relieved. You look up at Spencer and he has this amused twinkle in his eyes and a very dumb smug smirk on his face. Once you're fully and completely done with your little speech, the first thing he does is laugh.

You're so offended you immediately take your hand away from his and slap his chest, “Don't fucking laugh, I just confessed my feelings for you.” You hit him some more, but he won't stop laughing, “Spencer, this is so fucking rude, oh my god, just reject me like a lady if you're going to mock me like this.” 

He catches your hand before you land another weak punch on his arm, and you have very little time to react before he reaches forward, cupping your face with his other hand and joining your lips for a long-awaited kiss. 

You've fantasized about the way he kisses for a very long time. After you’d heard about his little make-out session with that actress in the pool, it took everything in your body to resist asking him to take you next. You've thought about kissing him nearly every night when you were falling asleep, he was even haunting some of your dreams like a fiend, kissing you like his life depended on it, only for you to wake up to the cruel, harsh reality of never having kissed Spencer Reid.

But that reality is different now. 

He uses both his hands to cup your face and angles your head just right to get as much contact as possible. He tastes like the wine you've been drinking all night and smells like cedar wood and sage. God, even when kissing you he has to smell like a perfect little herbal garden? You'd get mad at him if his lips moving against yours weren't melting away every ounce of sophistication you have in your body. 

You use the chance to be greedy and reach your hand into his hair, making sure to mess it up so that there’s proof that you were here, in his arms, kissing him. 

He's sweet with his kiss, despite knowing you both waited for it for so long, he doesn't push you to go further even though you'd love for him to. You'd let him take you on this table right now.

But the absolute worst thing about Spencer is that he's so respectful that he pulls away after a few seconds to watch for your reaction. He's flushed with desire and his eyes have gone dark in a way that you've only seen when he was really angry. You can tell that he's restraining himself to not make you uncomfortable. His eyes scan your face eagerly, his hands resting on either side of your face.

“God, you're so… ridiculous.” 

The comment is so unexpected that you laugh, and the sexual tension seems to ease into just… sexual existence. “Hey, what's that for? You're going to kiss a girl and then immediately insult her?” 

His smile mirrors yours, “my apologies, your highness. I have just never heard such a ridiculous confession in my life before.” 

You frown, lips curling into a pout, “not true, that actress in the pool had a ridiculous confession too.” She didn't, but you never fully got over her kissing Spencer before you could. 

“Oh yes, I'm sorry, I forget about any other woman when I'm with you.” Then he plants a quick kiss on your lips with a poorly concealed smile, and you can just tell that he's going to be doing that a lot to get away with whatever bullshit he's spewing. 

“You’re unbelievable, Spencer Reid.” 

Then you’re kissing him again, craving more of what he gave you during the first kiss. The desperation for contact has you pulling him closer by his collar, leaning into the kiss like you were starving before him. When he finally slips his tongue into your mouth, you moan so pathetically it makes his grip around you tighten, body drawing impossibly closer to yours.

You're kissing for such an extended period of time that you're dizzy from the lack of air when he pulls away, and you're greeted by that lovely shade of crimson on his face. You desperately want to find out just how red he can get and in what other places.

You're admiring his face, lost in the haze of the kiss, and chewing absentmindedly on your lips when you suddenly remember something very important. You draw back a little to shoot him a very serious look. 

“Hey, you never said you liked me back.” 

He laughs in disbelief, “do I have to?” 

You nod like a petulant child, seriously alarmed.

He playfully rolls his eyes, “alright, I like you too,” he kisses you, “I like you a lot actually.” 

You're satisfied with that answer, melting into his touch again, like a helpless pet. You admire the post-makeout look that adorns his face and makes him more beautiful than you could ever imagine, and he gazes at you with stars in his eyes. For a while, it feels like the universe belongs to the two of you and no one else. 

Until you remember how late it is and the fact that Spencer actually works tomorrow, then you're not that happy anymore. 

“What's wrong?” He asks, nose rubbing against yours as if you could ever focus on anything when he's that close. 

“You have work tomorrow, and it's very late…” 

He draws back from you, as if broken out of the trance by your words, “Oh no, you're right.” He's starting to move away when something inside you kicks in and suddenly your legs are flying to lock around his waist to secure him in place. He raises his eyebrows at you, amused and surprised.

“You can't do this.” 

You nod your head menacingly, “oh yes I can.” You know he could easily break out of your hold if he really wanted to, but the fact that he's entertaining your antics tells you that he's not very eager to leave either. 

“Angel, I have to go to work in the morning. Like an adult with responsibilities, you know?” 

If you were in your right mind, you'd be offended at that comment, but he's just kissed you senselessly and then called you ‘angel’ for the very first time. No one could blame you for not being very wise. 

“You can still go to work in the morning, you just... don't have to leave right now.” 

“You want me to stay? Here?” You nod. “My love, you don't even have a change of clothing that can fit me.” 

“Then sleep naked. I won't complain.” 

He laughs, “What about a toothbrush? You don't have an extra one for me.” 

“I change my toothbrush once every three months and I always buy extra, so I do actually have a completely sealed, never used before brush that you can use. It will be yours from now on.” 

He shakes his head in disbelief but you can tell he's starting to budge, your technique is working. 

Plus there's the unsaid promise that, if he stays, there will be a lot more kissing going on. 

“And you want me to go to work tomorrow in this same outfit?” 

“Mhm, we'll hang it and it will be just fine.” 

“I don't have my badge with me, I can't go to work without my badge.” 

You scoff. “Then wake up early and drive by your place, stop creating irrelevant problems, Spencer.” 

He’s in disbelief at your brazenness but seems to cave in anyway. “Fine, yeah, I'll stay.” 

You smile, very proud of yourself, “yes you will.” 

At this point, you're aware that your leg is still around his waist, and you're holding him in place like you took him hostage, but you honestly don't feel like letting him go just yet. Months of pining for him like a lovesick fool, you think you deserve to relish in the power you exert over him. He seems to notice the hunger for power in your eyes because he's coming closer again, placing his hands on either side of your thighs. 

“You have other plans for me tonight, don't you?” He's using that husky tone again and looking at you with glazed-over hazel eyes. Like a predator hunting its prey. 

You place your arms around his neck, back where they belong, “and if I do? Will you punish me, officer?” 

His warm breath fans over your lips and you're shaking to your core with anticipation, “I don't know, maybe I will.” 

Then he puts an end to all your antagonizing conversations that are distracting you from more important matters by bringing you in for another eager kiss. You take all of him in, the stubborn grip he has on your face, the teeth clashing when he shifts your positions, the low moan he releases when you pull on his hair — you take everything he gives you with eagerness and hunger. You could swallow him up whole right now if you could. 

When he pulls away to take a breath and you're confronted by his disheveled face once more, you realize that there are a lot of things you're going to do to him tonight. You realize that it’s going to be a good while before either of you goes to sleep.

[consextualjane]

Ransom

Brandon jumped when his phone buzzed. His nerves were nearly fried from hours of worry, wondering where Alicia could be. Tuesdays were her yoga class days. She was usually home by seven, but it was going on midnight now.

He grabbed his phone.  What he saw on the screen didn't make sense. A picture of Alicia, ball-gagged and on her knees in front of a mirror, was sent from an unknown number.  The woman who had taken the picture was standing next to Alicia with her ass pressed against his girlfriend's face.

The message under the image was even more surreal: I picked up your dumb girlfriend at a yoga class. I told her I  ran an advanced class from my home, and this idiot believed me.  She's full of drugs and had a vibrator held to her clit for the last two hours. I doubt she even knows her name right now. If you want her back, wire five thousand dollars to the link in the next message. Or something worse will happen to her.

Brandon's phone buzzed again and the link appeared.  His brain didn't register what was happening. Was this some kind of prank? Alicia had mentioned wanting to spice up their sex life. Was this her way? Or was it real?

What the fuck is this, he typed in response, not knowing what else to do. He waited for what seemed like several minutes before he received a response.

You have one minute.

Brandon's worry turned to anger. He wasn't going to indulge whatever game this was.

He typed another message: Go fuck yourself.

Suit yourself, came the response.

He tossed the phone on couch. She'd be home soon, once she realized he wasn't into whatever game this was. And then they would be having frank discussion about what he considered cheating. He flopped himself down on the couch and turned on the TV.

A few minutes of channel surfing went by before he looked back at his phone.  Who was the other girl in that photo? Why was Alicia dressed like such a slut for her? Brandon picked up his phone and opened the photo again.

There was his girlfriend, on her knees and wearing a leather belt and collar lingerie. Since when did she act like that? The other woman's big ass was dominating Alicia's face. She almost looked like she was enjoying it. His cock stiffened.

He started to rub it through his pants, but then he stopped himself, throwing his phone down. He wasn't into this kinky stuff. And he didn't sign up to date a whore.

His eyes were drifting back to the TV when he felt his phone vibrate through the couch cushion. Was that her again? Reaching for the phone, he felt his heart rate quicken. When he looked at the screen he found text message with only a video.

A surge of images flashed through his mind. Was this woman actually doing things to his girlfriend? There was no way he could watch that video. He only hesitated for a moment before his thumb betrayed him and pressed play.

The video opened to a view of the woman's bedroom. The lights were off except for a neon glow coming from behind the camera, illuminating her empty bed. An eighties-style synth pop song started playing in the background as a women walked into the frame.

Only her bottom half was visible in the video, but Brandon could tell from her thong that it was the woman from the photo. She walked in front of the camera, showing off her wide hips. Brandon felt himself getting harder despite his disgust. He held the phone closer, and noticed a bulge in the front of the woman's thong.

She  stood in front of the bed, swaying her hips for several seconds, before reaching into the front of her thong and pulling out one of the biggest cocks Brandon had ever seen, fully hard and girthy. It was nearly twice the size of his own.

She stroked the behemoth a few times. His mouth fell open as a thick bead of precum oozed out of the tip and dripped out of the frame. His own cock was about to burst through his pants. Without realizing what he was doing, he unzipped and pulled it out.

The woman on the video then walked out of view. The synthesizer-heavy song continued to hum ominously in the background. A second later Brandon saw his girlfriend climb on to the bed on all fours. A mix of horror and lust coursed through his cock as he watched the woman get on to the bed behind her.  She pushed Alicia down into the mattress and pulled her hips up before giving her ass a hard slap. He heard his girlfriend moan over the music.

After another ass-slap, Alicia turned and looked directly at the camera. Brandon felt her looking at him. Her eyes were wide, full of fear, and lust, and something that almost seemed like an apology for what he was about to see.

Right on cue, the woman sank her massive, bare girl-cock  into his girlfriend from behind. Alicia fell to the mattress, letting out an orgasmic cry just as the video cut out.

Brandon stared at the screen, his phone in one hand, his throbbing cock in the other. The shock of the video made his mind go blank. Before he could think of what to do next his phone buzzed with another message.

Send the money to see the rest.