#and the devil def has crowley vibe in this one

[boszorkanycica]

its may not helping but i LOVE jesus crist superstar, and you know you always could watch the "original" movie version, which is good. but also you should check out the 2012 live arena tour version (if you find it anywhere) with Tim Minchin as Judas bc its chef's kiss. (king herod has a talk show and judas has rasta hair... also he is hot hot. and ahh, i may try to find it again..)

(also now i want to watch those JesusxJudas edits..)

i appear to have hyperfixated on the bible. i wish i was joking. Ive read so much fanfic. watch fucking JesusxJudas edits to Taylor Swifts songs (no one unders how much they are "my tears ricochet" coded like i do) help. i am so close to watching Jesus Christ Superstar help

[shotsbyshae]

A Little Wicked

Warnings: Language, Little Smut-ish

Words: 1.3k

Pairing: Tony Stark x Fem!Reader

A/N: Monster of the Week Drabble featuring everyone’s favorite playboy and a new guest star. 

Song: A Little Wicked by Valerie Broussard

No one calls you honey when you're sitting on a throne.

You loathe a pencil skirt.

It’s much easier to move quickly in a pair of ripped up jeans and boots if the circumstances arise. Have you ever tried to run in a pair of five-inch stilettos and a pencil skirt? It’s not fucking easy.

Yet here you are, in your red heels with a form fitting solid black skirt that hits you mid-thigh. The white Def Leppard band t-shirt you wear is tucked neatly into your waistband, and your black leather jacket gives you a don’t fuck with me vibe as you stroll through the front doors of the building with the brown paper bag clutched in your hand.

You exude confidence as you make your way through the building, gaining sidelong glances from several people, some of who have seen you come through here before – more than once. No one knows your name, you’re just the girl who always brings in a brown paper bag.

You never knock on his office door, always striding in like you’re in charge, locking the door behind you.

After all, you’re a mother fucking queen. You always remind yourself of that, because he’s the reason you put on heels and wear the skintight skirts you hate so much – he loves it.  

You’ve never let a man have any sort of control over you. You’re cold – calculating – you would rather shred a man’s ego before stroking it. Part of you hates the way he makes you feel – part of you likes it.

Tony Stark makes you soft.

You’d never admit it to him, although you suspect he knows from the snarky grin he has on his face as you stride over to his desk, tossing the paper bag onto the glass surface.

“I’ll call you back Rhodey,” he says into the phone he’s holding to his ear before dropping it back down on the cradle. A toothy grin causes his eyes to crinkle around the edges and you shake your head in disgust at your weakness. Oh, he knows. Even his voice is oozes sex appeal as he greets you, “Hi there.”

You move around the desk and his eyes watch you hungrily as you grab the arm of his chair, turning him to face you. You’re not gentle – he loves it. You run a hand through his jet black hair, fingers tangling in it as you grip a fistful, jerking his head back to look up at you.  

“It’s been a while,” his tone is flirty. Dark eyes peering up at you with respect – desire. “You look great.”

You smirk, “Shut up.” You slam your mouth against his as you straddle him in the chair. His hands sliding the skirt further up your thighs as his fingers dig into your skin desperately. He takes control of the kiss, his tongue pressing against yours roughly.

No man has ever had power over you like this.

Tony Stark is the only exception.

“Did you bring me a present?” His questions quietly against your mouth.

“It’s in the bag,” you reply, feeling him hard against the inside of your thigh.

“Good girl,” the tip of his tongue licks against your lip, in a long, languid movement. The heat of his mouth radiates into yours. Wet – you’re so wet – you fucking love to hate Tony Stark.

***

You carefully tuck your shirt back into the waistband of your skirt as Start drags the paper sack across the desk to him, opening it carefully.

“When are you going to come work for me?” Stark comments as he pulls out a neatly wrapped cheeseburger and lays it beside the bag.

“Never,” you reply grinning as you slip your heels back on.

“Come on, larger salary,” he smirks, removing two vials full of a deep red liquid. “And I know the benefits are better.” You roll your eyes at him as he lifts the glass tubes higher, inspecting their contents. “This is pure, right?”

“All mine,” you remark as you pull your jacket back up on your shoulders. You head toward the door, tossing him a wave over your shoulder. “Have fun with your little experiments Tony.”

His dark eyes watch you closely as you exit his office, his lips turning up in a half smile. Fury had assigned he and Banner the task of creating a unique serum, requested it for another S.H.I.E.L.D. asset, some man named Brooks. He’d done some research and summoned you. He was thinking you would be more of a deformed, monstrosity of a creature. You were definitely not at all what he expected.

You had started supplying him with your blood six months ago.

He and Banner had the serum created within the first three months.

You didn’t need to know that though, because he lives for the thrill of these little moments with you. He loves dancing with the devil, knowing at any moment you could break his neck with just snap of your fingers. You are domineering – formidable – you submit to no one.

Except him. You submit to him, with soft, throaty moans and wet, reckless kisses when your body presses roughly against his – always so desperate for his touch.

In those little moments, he owns you.

You hate it.

He loves it.

You’re both damned.  

***

The room is dark and dank as you make your way inside.

It’s musty and wreaks heavily of sulfur – more so than usual.

Which means he’s home and cleaning house. Part of you wonders who he killed – hopefully more than one – many weren’t loyal.

You are though.

The others talk – gossip – run their mouths about what a failure of a King he is. They don’t like the way he does things. Don’t like the way he trusts certain people, but you understand it.

Good. Evil.

There’s a fine line to walk between the two.

Not everyone is a hundred percent one way or the other on that spectrum.

Down here it’s all death, torture, and self-preservation. You’re not supposed to think – care – about anyone else, especially humans.

Except, he does and now, thanks to a snarky, arrogant, and reckless playboy, you do too.    

“There you are,” the man at the front of the room announces, his accent deep, gruff, and British. The suit he’s wearing matches the black, high-backed throne upon which he’s sitting. “Where have you been?” He visibly takes in your appearance, as your heels click sharply against the stone floor. “And what in the bloody hell are you wearing?”

“Shut up,” you pop off as you approach him. “I had business to attend to.”

Realization strikes him and his eyes narrow, “Did you meet with Stark again?” You don’t respond as you pick up a book from the table near his throne, idly flipping the pages. “Got a thing for superheroes do you?” The wheels are turning in his mind, he’d tried for years to get a contract with one them. Almost had one with Banner, but he backed out last minute. “When are you sealing a deal with him?”

“I’m not,” you reply simply, not looking up from the book in your hands.

“What – I made you Queen of the Crossroads,” his voice rising an octave out of anger. “That’s your entire job. You need to seal a deal.”

You turn a hard stare on him, “No.”

“Excuse me,” he looks at you in contempt.

“If the Winchesters are off limits,” you begin sternly, dropping the book back on the table, letting it land with a hard thump that echoes in the room. “Then so is Tony Stark.”

He watches as you slowly move closer, sitting down on the arm of his thrown beside him. The man glares at you, the sheer audacity in which you speak to him would warrant a death sentence from anyone else.

You aren’t anyone else though. You are his favorite – the teacher’s pet – you know it.

You run your hand along his shoulder, your voice softer, “What’s the matter Crowley? I know it’s not me you’re really mad at. Who’s got you all ruffled?”

The demon let’s out a sigh of frustration, “Mother, who else?”