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macfrog · 1 year

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you shook me all night long sex on fire chapter one

requested by @whore-4-pedro (hope u enjoy lovely)

lived all my succession fantasies out writing this one icl. enjoy 🖤 check out my masterlist for more joel fun ‼️

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: as joel miller's assistant, you're expected to meet all his needs. some are a little more personal than others

warnings: 18+ (minors dni!!!) creepy dude at the beginning, lotta teasing and touching, mentions of female masturbation, fingering, unprotected p in v sex, semi-public sex, daddy kink, age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), alcohol and drug use, cursing, low-key inappropriate work relationship (if bad then why sexy?)

word count: 7.8k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist

You grind your ass and Joel hums into your skin. He’s getting harder by the second, you’re getting wetter. It’s not enough, what you’re doing. You need more. You lower your hand and cup him through his pants, taking hold of his bulge and massaging gently. His hips are moving, he’s rutting into your palm, both of you desperate to rid yourselves of the clothing separating your skin. “I asked,” you breathe, “what’s next on the agenda?” “Next,” Joel mumbles into your skin, “was thinkin’ I could bend you over this desk ‘n fuck you.”

It’s Friday night.

You only got home from work an hour and a half ago. Tired, hungry, sore eyes from staring at a screen all night, sore back from sitting hunched over all day. Dumped your bags at the door, ripped your clothes off by your bed, dove straight into the shower. You’d picked an outfit, curled your hair in record time, and even done your makeup before Deb called to say she was out front.

It was a ten-minute drive from your place to the hotel – it’s only a couple blocks from work. The cab driver made light conversation, talked about his daughter and her new puppy, and you both nodded and uhuhed in all the breaks in his sentences. Deb made some comment about it being easier if you’d just stayed at the office until the party, and you’d hummed in agreement, looking out the window at the regal hotel.

Truth be told, you’d rather be doing anything other than attending a work function. You’ve had a long week. A lot of meetings, paperwork, emails to be answered, and most of all, running around after your boss. It’s not all fun and games being Joel Miller’s assistant, regardless of the pay, or the view from your desk over to his.

Your head’s elsewhere when you waltz through the revolving door, heels clicking along the marble floor. The elevator – gold, by the way – slides open and you both step inside, hitting the highest button before you’re swept up twenty floors to the penthouse.

“Did you send those documents over to us yet?” Deb asks.

“Nope,” you reply, slipping out when the elevator dings. “Had to sit in on a meeting with Joel and take the fucking minutes, spent all night writing them up.”

“He won’t be pissed at you?”

“If he hadn’t insisted I was in there with him, you’d have your reports, wouldn’t you?”

She shrugs, agreeing.

“Anyway,” you continue, “I can take angry Joel. He doesn’t scare me.”

Deb chuckles as you shoulder the doors to the penthouse open.

It’s a moody dull, lit only by the lights lining the bar and small lamps decorating mahogany tables, sat next to deep green velvet couches. There are clusters of people everywhere you look; stood near shelves filled with leather-bound books, examining the view from the floor to ceiling windows, sprawled out over luxurious chairs with champagne flutes in their hands. There’s a tree in the middle of the room, branches decorated in blinking string lights reaching to a glass dome in the ceiling.

It's, like, sickeningly pretentious. You know it. Hell, you all know it. Still, in your little black dress, you strut over and take a champagne of your own, sipping on the fizzing drink with one elbow resting on the wooden bar.

“There’s my girl,” his voice coos over your shoulder. “Been watchin’ for you all night, took your time.”

You lean back, bored expression on your face.

Joel’s broad chest pulls on the white shirt he’s wearing, same one you just saw him in little over three hours ago, only without a tie; the top couple of buttons are undone to reveal his chest hair peeking through. You try not to let your eyes linger on him too long.

“You look fuckin’ ecstatic to be here.”

He leans against the bar next to you, arms crossed. When you don’t reply, he nudges you. Your champagne jolts in its glass.

“I always look like this. I’m always ecstatic to be everywhere.”

He smiles. “Why aren’t you mingling?”

“Don’t wanna.”

“’s a work event. That’s the whole point.”

“Then why are you over here talkin’ to me?”

His eyes flash across your lips, and you swear they drop for a nanosecond to your chest.

“Come on,” he says, taking your wrist in his huge hand, “some people you oughta meet.”

Joel ignores your sigh and leads you over onto a plush rug, sidling between knees to sit you down on the soft couch between himself and some bald dude in a jet blue suit, whose shirt is also undone, though much further than Joel’s. He has a chest like a hairless cat.

Cue Ball snakes an arm over the back of the couch; his fingers dance across your back. You shimmy a little closer to Joel and he notices instantly, jaw turning slowly to glance over. When he sees your knees angled toward him, seeking protection, he leans back and wraps his left arm around your shoulders, his right coming down to cup your knee.

“This,” he shakes your leg, left arm pulling you tighter against him, “is my wonderful assistant. My right-hand lady. Couldn’t do anything without her, could I?”

“Could wipe your own ass, that’s about it,” you mumble into your glass, and a roar of laughter sounds from your audience.

Joel, still leaning back, pulls his arm from you but keeps his shoulder firmly behind yours, making sure whatever the creep on your left tries, he’ll feel first. Your elbow rests in the crook of his, and you keep it there, quietly enjoying the intimacy of his body caging yours.

His left hand is settled on your thigh. You realize it after a swig of champagne, and start counting in your head how many seconds his fingers stay gripped on your skin.

He talks with his hands – always has. Walks around his office, ranting and raving sometimes, arms swinging around in the air while you take notes, or file your nails, or just watch until he’s done. For the next half hour, though, he only talks with his right hand. Only sips his beer with his right hand. Only scratches his beard, or pulls his phone from his pocket, or reaches up and passes you a second drink, and then a third, with his right hand.

You stay rigid, legs unmoving, eyes barely leaving his knuckles, locked tight around your thigh. There’s heat from his touch siphoning from his palm down through your skin, rippling like waves all through your body and pooling somewhere south of your belly button. No matter how hard you try, you can’t shake it. Can’t stop thinking about it. You barely notice when Cue Ball’s hand ghosts across your back a second time.

But Joel notices, straight away. He flashes the guy a look, and you swear he’s baring his teeth. Eyes locked on the blue suit like it’s a target, never blinking. He doesn’t say anything when his prey excuses himself to the bathroom, and you don’t turn to watch him go, but you do notice three other sharp-suited pricks stand and wander off in that direction after him.

Probably not a coincidence.

Joel still has a hold on your leg. Your flute is empty, and you lean forward to place it on the wooden table at your knees, beginning to stand.

His grip loosens, but he looks up at you as you tower over him.

“Cocktail,” you tell him with a sweet smile, and he nods, letting you go.

You know he’s watching you as you slink away. Is it the alcohol in your system, or something darker, that makes you sway your hips a little more for his benefit?

Deb’s over at the bar with Martha, another of Joel’s assistants. She’s around his age, worked for him much longer than you have, but when he hired you, you took on most of the groundwork. Following Joel’s orders– sorry, requests, organizing meetings, filing paperwork for him. Martha sits at a desk outside Joel’s office, answers the phone and directs anyone who happens to wander up to the top floor of the building.

Did I say directs? I meant strikes coldblooded fear within them and sends them back running the way they came, with just one look and a nod in the opposite direction.

Unless they’re there for a meeting with Joel, that is. And if they are, that’s where you come in. Good morning, Mr. Salazar, Mr. Miller will be right with you. This way, he’s just finishing up a call.

Martha’s a tough nut. But she likes you enough, so she smiles warmly as you approach.

“I’m hearing all about your note-taking this afternoon,” she hums when you hop up onto a barstool, catching the bartender’s eye. He trots over.

You sigh to Martha, eyes wide. “I didn’t leave until, like, eight. What the fuck’s that about? Can I just get a cosmopolitan, please?” you ask, and the bartender nods. He looks about fifteen.

Martha shakes her head, laughing. “He did it to me when I was first startin’ out, too. Told him to stick his minutes where the sun don’t shine.”

“I’ve been here three years,” you mutter, and Deb snorts.

“You’d think Joel would’ve changed his ways in the, what, seven decades since you started, Martha?”

It earns her a slap across the shoulder. You stifle your laugh behind your glass, thanking the teenager who served you it with a nod.

“Twenty years next March, actually,” Martha says.

“That so? D’you think he’ll get you anything for it?”

“If I’m lucky,” she sighs, eyes travelling up to the ceiling in thought, “a lunch break where he doesn’t bother me once.”

“Knowing Joel, that means a lunch break where he bothers you twice.”

You smile, glancing past the pretentious tree to where Joel is, and notice he’s already staring right back. A swarm of butterflies flutter around your stomach, dancing over the heat his handprint left within you. They only grow more violent when he stands and walks over, broad shoulders swaying, eyes flitting up and down your body.

You lean back, sitting up straight, eyeing him right back as he joins the three of you.

“Speak of the devil,” Martha says, and Joel chuckles in response, but his eyes never leave you.

“We were just talkin’ about Martha’s twenty years,” says Deb, winking.

He finally turns to answer her. “Oh, yeah? When’s that, then, old-timer?”

“Dirtball!” Martha yells, and Joel smirks. It goes straight to your core.

“How many Manhattans tonight, then, Deb?”

Deb holds her glass up. “I am on my second, and I will not be exceeding three. We don’t need a repeat of Christmas.”

“Aw,” Joel complains, tutting, “I liked hammered Deb.”

“That’s ‘cause you didn’t have to deal with hungover Deb,” you mutter, and she shoots you a look.

Joel smiles at you, takes a step closer as Deb and Martha begin comparing past hangovers. He leans forward, waves the fifteen-year-old down, and asks for a beer. As he leans back, you notice the weight of his wrist on your right hip. Nicely done.

“You know there are four guys in the bathroom doing coke?”

“I hope to God that’s all they’re doin’. I don’t need another orgyhappenin’ at one of these things.”

You giggle like a fucking schoolgirl. He looks pleased with himself, and you instantly regret it. You try to play it off by lifting your glass back to your lips.

Joel’s studying you, though, mapping every inch of your face. Watching your mouth as it curves around the shape of the glass, your tongue licking your lips after your sip. He tracks the glass as you set it back down on the bar, then his eyes trail along your arm to your dress, and your stomach leaps.

He looks so fucking good, it sends another wave of energy through your body. Dark hair lined with grey, beard much the same. Strong jaw, lips wetting with every sip of beer he takes, dark eyes flitting across yours, holding your stare long enough to melt you a little, and then dipping just before you can read the thoughts behind them.

His skin a little tanned, his neck thick with muscle. You can feel the heat radiating off of him, you’re so close. Close enough that you could lean up, part your lips and sink your teeth under his ear, suck a mark there, taste him on your tongue.

Your head cocks after a few minutes silence, just the two of you enjoying the fucking look of each other. You lean a little against his arm, steady around your back.

“I hate work parties,” you sigh.

Joel scoffs. “Free alcohol, nice penthouse. Cocaine, if you want it. What’s not to like?”

You narrow your eyes and he laughs for real.

“I hate ‘em, too, baby. Gotta keep up appearances, though, don’t we?”

Baby. This fucker.

“Do we?” you squeak, after a few seconds dazed.

He shrugs. “’s what I hear.”

He’s so close you can smell the beer on his tongue. It makes your heart quicken, your body hum with energy. That could just be the alcohol in your system, though, right?

Who are you kidding? It’s fucking Joel doing it to you.

You have no idea how long he was here before you arrived. He left the office around six, and you presumed he’d come straight here to check everything was in order before guests started arriving. How many beers has he had? Is he just drunk, feeling up on you with liquid courage?

You’re mulling over the thought when a pair of hands clamp down on Joel’s shoulders and his hold on your waist loosens. He mumbles an apology as he’s dragged away by a couple of loose-collared, baggy-suit drunks. You shake your head in response, trying to be cool – It’s all good, man. I’m good. I’m not totally fawning over you right now, no way.

Deb swings her barstool around when she notices you’re on your own, inviting you back into their conversation. Thirty seconds into talking about childhood pets, you’re wishing Joel was back around you, igniting your skin and peaking your adrenaline. Max the Pomeranian is a nice picture; Joel’s nicer.

Martha says something with a hand motion, and Deb nods, elbow knocking into yours.

“What?”

She nods toward the balcony. “We’re headin’ out for a smoke, you comin’?”

“Nah, I’m good. I’ll save your seats.”

They nod and wander off between a crowd, swallowed up by bodies in the direction of the open sliding doors, the blinking lights of the skyline ahead.

You’re twirling the base of your empty glass around on its napkin when you feel that same heat behind you again, and a hand rests on the small of your back.

“Coat,” Joel mutters, pulling his suit jacket on.

“Huh?”

“Get your coat. Everyone’s headin’ across the street.”

“Why is everyone heading across the street?”

He shrugs. “Afterparty, I guess.”

“It’s a work function. It’s like–” you check your phone, “–oh, fuck, it’s almost midnight.” You screw your face up, watching as the small crowd slowly melts away through the suite doors.

“I know. I throw a good party, right?”

“So good, people are leaving it.”

He tuts. “Coat. Now.”

“I didn’t bring one.”

“You didn’t bring a coat?”

“You told me the party was here. I didn’t think we’d be walking all over town.”

“’s not all over town, baby,” Joel murmurs with a sigh. “Here.”

He peels the jacket off his shoulders and you hold a hand out to stop him.

“Joel, it’s fine, it’s–”

“Quit moanin’,” he groans as he throws it over your shoulders. He scoops your hair and pulls it softly out from under the collar. “Alright? C’mon.”

He takes your hand and leads you past some stragglers down the hall toward the elevator, where a group are waiting for the doors to open.

“Tight squeeze, Miller,” some dude chuckles as you follow Joel in, his hand still gripping yours.

He turns, backing into the corner, pulling you with him until your back is flush against his chest.

His hands drop to your hips. You swallow back a scream.

One of the accountants is stood in front of your – Harriet? Helen? Something beginning with H – anyway, she keeps knocking back into you, pushed by the sway of the packed elevator. It means you knock a little into Joel, and feel his chin on the crown of your head.

You turn ever so slightly to mumble an apology to him, but when you feel his breath on the shell of your ear, your words die in your throat.

“Hazel?” – That’s her fucking name – Joel reaches around you to tap her shoulder, and her bobbed haircut swings when she turns. “Did you get those balance sheets yet?”

“Not yet, Joel,” she tells him, and your face prickles with heat.

“No? That’s weird.” Joel’s grip tightens on your hips, his mouth dangerously close to your ear. In a low whisper, only to you, he says, “Thought I asked to have ‘em sent over by this afternoon.”

You muster up the courage to reply with a deep breath. From the corner of your mouth, through gritted teeth, you tell him, “That was before you forced me to sit in on a buyers’ meeting.”

You feel his chest rumble between your shoulder blades as he laughs. The elevator shudders to a stop and the doors slide open; the crowd spills out.

You step forward, ahead of Joel, and make it maybe three steps before he’s back on you, an arm draped over your shoulders. You reach up and take his hand, leaning against his strong torso to let him guide you toward the exit.

No idea what makes you do it. Maybe you’re drunk. Maybe not only on alcohol.

You’re the last of the pack, stumbling over air across the gleaming floor toward the revolving door, which Joel pushes open for you. The cool night breeze hits you as you slip out.

The crowd ahead are rushing across the street, yelling and whooping as they go. It’s juvenile, a little cringe. A bunch of rich corporates skipping across the street toward cheap alcohol and peanuts. You’d care more about the way it looks if you were sober.

Joel’s hand finds yours again and he’s leading you down the steps, cutting between parked cars toward the dive bar. You link your other arm around his elbow and he glances down, noting it. You wish the walk was longer.

A flickering fluorescent light drowns you both in a red glow, and Joel pushes the doors open. The place is flooded with half of your party, drowning booths, leaning against the bar, dancing in any open floorspace.

The floor is sticky, the bar dim. Joel takes you over to the same crowd he introduced you to earlier, and makes space for you to sit. You slide along the booth to the wall and he follows, squeezing up to you to let two more in after him.

“Beers?” a guy with a loose tie asks, to a chorus of yeses and a show of thumbs up. Mitch? Mark?

You tug Joel’s jacket from your shoulders – the movement nudges him and he turns to lift it from your back and tuck it behind you, brushing the hair off your shoulders. You smile in thanks, and his hand falls back onto your leg.

It takes you a few minutes to notice it this time. The gentle squeeze of his fingers around your thigh, the way it slowly bumps up each time he adjusts in his seat or shifts to allow space for someone else to join the booth.

His hand moves slowly, dangerously close to pulling your skirt up with it. Mitch or Mark returns with your beers and you take a massive swig, nerves and anticipation and fucking need for Joel to keep doing what he’s doing, taking over.

Under lights blurred by the alcohol in your system, the table buzzes with energy and chatter and laughter. There are posters and stickers all over the walls, graffiti of names and initials, numbers and dates scored into the walls. Joel traces them with his finger and you laugh at some of the messages.

“Lydia and Jack,” you mumble, “12-24-19. Wonder what happened then.”

“Bathroom sex,” Joel replies, eyes scanning the wall.

You scoff, beer to your lips. “On Christmas Eve?”

He nods, like it’s obvious. “Magical time ‘n all.”

You look past him with a smile to the opposite side of the bar where, through silhouetted bodies, you notice a jukebox.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Your eyes widen, your mouth agape.

Joel follows your eyeline and then twists back around. “C’mon,” he says, taking your hand and motioning for the others to let you by. He drags you over to the machine, lighting your faces up in yellow light, and your drunk eyes scan the screen.

“Nope." You swipe Joel’s hand away right before he can pick some Pet Shop Boys song.

“Really?”

“Good, but not the vibe,” you tell him, and budge him out of the way with your hip. He sways off, laughing, and leans a palm against the jukebox, his chest on your back for the second time tonight. As your tired eyes scan the songs, Joel’s chin rests on your shoulder.

He’s judging every fucking song you linger on. “Queen? Little before your time.”

“Dick.”

“Fleetwood Mac. Definitely before your time.”

“The entire fucking jukebox is before my time, dude. Shut up. These are good songs.”

You settle on a track and turn to face him. He has you almost fucking pressed against the box.

“Change, please.”

“Oh, I’m payin’, am I?”

“Mhm. Your work party, your wallet.”

He sighs and pushes a fist into his pocket for coins, tossing a quarter into your outstretched palm. You turn back and select your song, put the money in, and the old machine barks out the intro.

Joel sighs, shaking his head. “AC/DC? That’s your thing?”

“It’s not yours?” You’re taking him by the hand between bodies, swaying as you go.

He’s laughing, following you until you’re in the middle of the cramped bar, chest to chest, moving together. His hands find your waist again and this time you don’t even flinch; your fingers trail up his shirt, across his chest, settle on his collar.

You fucking swear he’s leaning in, each beat of the song drawing his jaw closer to yours. If you weren’t in a room full of co-workers, you’d probably let him kiss you.

I mean, what you’re doing right now is hardly innocent anyway. His hands are splayed on your lower back, your hips flat against his, rubbing, dancing. Your head rolls back and your lips are under his chin, smiling up at him and singing along. Joel sings the words straight back, your breath meeting and mingling in the tiny gap between your lips.

As the song ends, it fades into another. And another, and another. It’s two in the morning before your group of partiers begin to call taxis. You stumble out of the sweaty bar with an arm linked through Deb’s, still singing along to Whitney as you catch your breath.

She staggers off to a quieter part of the street to call a cab, and you hang around under the red light waiting for her. Joel’s stood at the curb; the back door of his sleek black Rolls-Royce open.

“Where you goin’?” he asks.

“Deb’s callin’ a cab,” you reply, arms folded, shoulders hunched.

Joel shakes his head. “Get in.”

“It’s cool, I’m jumping in with those guys. Thanks, though–”

“Baby,” Joel holds a hand out, “get in.”

Your eyes trace from his palm all the way up his sleeve, to his tired, handsome face. You’re sobering up. He looks clearer. Maybe that’s just the streetlights.

“Get you home in five minutes. C’mon.”

You swivel around to look for Martha and Deb, but they’re nowhere to be seen. The cab will come, they’ll assume you’re staying a while, and get in. No big deal, right?

Well. Stepping into your boss’s car after a night of highly inappropriate touching is kind of a big fucking deal.

That’s why you do it. Waddle over to him, take his hand, let him guide you to the car. You swing a leg in and slip across the seats, admiring the ceiling dotted with hundreds of tiny white lights, like you’re staring straight up at the night sky.

They blur through your drunken gaze, which doesn’t pull from them until you feel the weight of Joel on your right and hear the door slam shut.

“Mind puttin’ the partition up, Rand?” Joel’s voice says, though you mostly hear the vibrations through his chest, where your head is lying. His arm slips around your back, pulling you closer into him as the two of you are granted privacy by the quiet whir of the screen closing.

“Good night?” Joel asks, lips on your hair.

You nod. “You?”

“Mhm.”

His fingers are drawing shapes on your left hip. His right hand intertwines with yours. Your left hand starts to wander.

You liked his hand on you. Liked feeling his grip there. Wanted him to keep moving it up, wanted to see how far he’d take it. So, you put your own hand on the inside of his thigh, just like he did. Starting at the knee, and slowly sliding north. Joel’s breath tightens, his chest lifts, his jaw ticks.

The movement knocks you sober for a couple seconds. You realize what you’re doing. You draw your hand back.

“Sorry,” you mutter.

He unlinks your hands and places a steady palm over your withdrawn fist.

“’s okay, baby. You can do that if you want to.”

The drawl of his voice makes your eyes roll back, your heart leap. Your fucking legs clench.

You let him replace your hand where it was, and his legs widen a little. His crotch more available. You’re watching what you’re doing like you’re not even in your own body; watching it how Joel must be, thinking Higher, higher, keep going, keep doing that.

You lift your heavy head, resting it on his shoulder, and look up into his brown eyes. He’s framed by the starlit ceiling of the car. He’s looking at you, brows furrowed, face lined with his expression.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod lazily. “Tired.”

Just then his hand takes yours again and shifts it softly, stopping what was probably about to happen but still holding onto you, still wanting your fingers locked in his. Not halting the train, just switching tracks.

It’s not a long journey, certainly not as long as you’d like, until you’re parked on your street. Rand lowers the partition to call back, and Joel thanks him.

“You okay gettin’ to your apartment?”

“Yup,” you groan, hoisting yourself out of the comfortable car.

“Sure? I can walk you up if you want.”

You bend down, one arm on the roof of the car. “I’m good, thanks. Thanks for the ride, Miller.”

“Be safe, baby.”

“You be safe, too. Bye.”

You throw the door closed and meander off up the steps toward your building. Joel’s car doesn’t roll off until your elevator arrives and you disappear inside.

You spend all weekend in bed, recovering not only from the party but from the week of work you’d endured. You keep yourself busy, though. There’s a Desperate Housewives marathon on TV. And when you’re not watching that, your hand is stuffed down your pants, Joel on your mind.

All. Fucking. Weekend.

In the shower, you’re picturing him on his knees in front of you, lapping you up. Hands gripping your thighs, draped over his shoulders. Your hand plants firmly against the wet tile when you cum, your orgasm threatening to collapse you in a heap.

In bed, you’re on top of him, knees either side of his waist, letting him buck his hips up until you’re screaming, covering him in your wet. Your vibrator battery dies by Saturday night.

Monday morning, you’re getting ready to leave for the office, and need to take ten minutes out to relieve the ache between your legs again. This time, he has you pressed against your bedroom wall, fucking you quick and messy, cumming deep inside you before he’ll let you head out.

It’s just a crush, right? It’s just because of how touchy you guys were on Friday. When you were drunk. And in a cramped, dark dive bar. Everybody gets crushes. And who wouldn’t, on a six-foot-whatever man with a jawline that could cut glass, hands that take a grip of you with minimal effort, a cock probably the size of…

No. Nope. That’s enough. Cut that the fuck out.

It’s just a crush. That’s what you keep telling yourself in the elevator, lights counting down the floors until you’re going to see Joel again. Is the sparkling feeling in your chest fear, anticipation, or excitement?

And is your cunt beginning to throb again?

You give a curt nod to Martha as you arrive, hauling your bag a little further up your shoulder and adjusting the folders in your arms on your hips.

“Where’d you go?” she asks, eyes still on the computer in front of her. Her chin propped on her elbow, face inches from the screen, reading something intently.

“Huh?”

“On Friday. We couldn’t find you when the cab arrived.”

“Oh, I, uh,” you clear your throat, “Joel gave me a ride. Yeah.”

She raises her eyebrows. “Generous of ‘im.”

“Yup.”

“He’s in the conference room waitin’ for you.”

“Cool, thanks.”

You hover for a few seconds, then take your cue to leave. You hurry over to the conference room door, knocking twice before pushing it open.

Joel’s sat at the top of the table, leant back in his chair, feet up on the wood in front of him. You feel like you could collapse.

“Mornin’,” he says, over the dull droning from the phone. Your eyes flit down to it, a question, and he answers, “weekend update.”

“Anything good?”

He shakes his head, leaning forward to hit the unmute button, affirm whatever the hell the other dude had been saying, say his goodbyes, and then hang up.

“Feelin’ fresh?” he asks when he’s sat back.

You take a deep breath and wobble your head as an answer, laying files and folders out on the table in preparation for the meeting Joel has this morning.

“That bad, huh?”

“I was fine by Saturday afternoon. How were you?”

He shrugs. “Wasn’t that drunk.”

Yeah. Sure, Joel. Your fingers took the brunt of the alcohol.

He stands up, wanders around the table to join you. Your fingers begin to tremble at the thought of him so close. Your thighs heat.

“This all of it?” he asks. He’s closer than you thought.

“Y-yep. Some copies there, too, if anyone needs a spare.”

His hand slips up between your shoulder blades, patting you gently at the base of your neck.

“Good job, baby.”

You almost fucking shudder. Your stomach jolts, your chest tightens. The ache between your legs pangs, reminding you it’s there, even though you can’t fucking do anything about it.

You spin around, settling back against the table, ankles crossed. Tense.

“How long do you reckon it’ll go on?”

“No idea. Why? Somewhere you gotta be?”

You shake your head. “Just organizing lunch ‘n stuff for you.”

“That can wait until after.”

“I’ll have it ready for you comin’ out. Be easier.”

He steps forward. Your heart stutters.

“You’ll be in here with me.”

You cock your head. “Again? What– Why?”

“I need you in here. To take–”

“–minutes? Yeah, figured as much. You gonna have me up here all night again writing ‘em up?”

He smirks, dimples in his cheeks. There are two options here: either smack him, or jump his bones – he deserves the first and you deserve the latter.

“I like having you in my meetings, darlin’,” he says, as the door handle turns, “stops me wanting to blow my brains out.”

Martha enters and Joel slots in alongside you on the table. She sets a tray with a coffee pot and packets of sugar and milk on the sideboard.

Your head is fucking dizzy. There’s a ringing in your ears. Energy sparkling in waves from the tops of your thighs all through you. Joel’s shoulder brushing against yours, his eyes boring into the side of your face.

You won’t look at him. Won’t take your eyes off of Martha, laying paper coffee cups out in rows, her back to you guys.

Joel lays a palm flat on your thigh, rounding the curve until his hand is firm between your legs, threatening to push your skirt up. You feel his breath hot on your neck, his voice like honey in your ear.

“Makes for a nice view, too.”

You whip around to glare at him. He leans back, chuckling to himself.

Through gritted teeth, you whisper, “Can I talk to you? In private?”

Joel shrugs, excuses you both to Martha, and then follows at your heels out of the conference room and over to his office door. You waltz in without permission, shoving the door open and waiting for him to close it behind himself.

Joel’s office is bright, clean. Giant windows lining three walls, huge desk with an even bigger bookcase behind. Two black leather couches opposite, facing one another with a glass coffee table between. Soft white rugs, obnoxiously huge lampshades, small fern plants dotted here and there. You found and booked the interior designer for him, and not a day’s gone by since that you don’t remind him of how nice a job you did.

Today, though, you break that streak. You round on him as soon as he closes the tall, wooden door behind him.

“Will you fucking quit it?”

“Fucking quit what, baby?” He’s almost laughing, strolling around his desk and settling into his leather chair, leaning back. Casual. Fucking – arrogant.

You stammer, holding up a shaky finger. “Okay, first of all – that. Don’t call me baby, that’s not appropriate. Second – the teasing?”

“I don’t get it, you liked me callin’ you baby on Friday night.”

You take your bottom lip between your teeth and give him a furious stare. He holds his hands up.

“My mistake.”

You stalk over to the windows separating Joel’s office from the reception area. Martha’s still in the conference room, the door ajar. You haul the shades shut to give yourselves some privacy.

“Stop – fucking with me. Stop it. We were drunk on Friday night. It wasn’t– Stop.”

“’m not fucking with you.” He leans his head to scratch his eyebrow. He repeats it when you turn away, hands flying up in the air. “I’m not.”

“Let’s just forget Friday happened, can we do that?”

Wandering around Joel’s office isn’t doing anything to relieve the weight between your legs. If anything, it’s making it worse. You make your way back to his desk and place your hands down on the wood, leaning over.

“Wh…what’s next on the agenda?” you ask, almost panting, your eyes closing.

You hear Joel’s chair rock when his weight leaves it. His footsteps pad across soft carpet, around the desk. Nearing you. They come to a halt and you feel the air stop short, right behind you.

For someone not trying to fuck with you, he’s doing an awfully good job at it.

You surrender, leaning back, your shoulders making contact with his chest. Then his hands find your hips, light, gentle. No pressure on them, not until your ass presses against his crotch and your head tilts, allowing Joel to hook his chin over your shoulder.

He’s hard, under his pants. Against you. You can feel it, still, steady. Rock solid beneath four layers of clothing.

His hands lift from your waist and glide up your shirt front, your stomach tensing when they brush over it. They come to rest over your breasts, squeezing and pinching your nipples through your shirt. And you fucking let him; lifting your right arm to hook around his jaw and pull him closer into your neck, where his lips leave soft, wet marks.

It feels like the first gasp of fresh, sea air after being underwater. The first gulp of chilled water after a hike. The first wave of aircon in the car. It’s relief. It’s desperate, borderline orgasmic relief.

You grind your ass and Joel hums into your skin. He’s getting harder by the second, you’re getting wetter. It’s not enough, what you’re doing. You need more.

You lower your hand and cup him through his pants, taking hold of his bulge and massaging gently. His hips are moving, he’s rutting into your palm, both of you desperate to rid yourselves of the clothing separating your skin.

“I asked,” you breathe, “what’s next on the agenda?”

“Next,” Joel mumbles into your skin, “was thinkin’ I could bend you over this desk ‘n fuck you.”

“Fuck me?” you repeat, and he nods. You take a breath. “S-sounds good.”

Joel’s hands find the hem of your skirt and start to pull it up your legs, painfully slow, revealing more and more of your bare thighs as he goes. He’s rubbing them, massaging until your skirt sits on your hips, little black panties exposed. His hand comes down to cup you, fingers gently applying pressure to your clit through the lace.

You moan, finally being touched by him again, finally feeling his hands on you where you need it most. Already, he’s doing better, making you feel better than you could ever by yourself. Than you did, by yourself. Involuntarily, you breathe out, “Daddy…”

Joel’s fingers pick up the pace. He fucking loves it.

“That feel good, baby? Like it like that? Tell me how it feels.”

“So – fucking – good,” you whisper, legs parting more to grant him better access. He dips his hand lower, thumb staying planted on your lace-covered clit, fingers shifting the fabric under your entrance aside.

He toys with you first, middle finger swaying back and forth through your folds, collecting slick, spreading it around. Then, a second finger, pushing upward, dangerously close to entering you. You’re gasping, leaning into him, letting his strong form keep you upright.

“That’s my girl,” Joel’s whispering into your ear. “You ain’t gotta do nothin’, just enjoy.”

And then he pushes up, two thick, curled fingers entering your cunt in one motion. He has you down to his knuckles, limp against his chest, mouth wide open in a silent gasp. Your head rolls to the side to watch him as he feels you for the first time, and his expression mirrors yours.

“So fuckin’ wet, babygirl,” he whispers, lips on your forehead.

“Fuck, daddy,” you whimper as his fingers press hard inside your soft pussy, starting to pump gently before picking up the pace and fucking you good.

The office is silent, save for your gasps and moans, and the wet sounds of Joel’s fingers in your cunt. He hums into your neck, thumb pressing hard against your clit, drawing tiny circles over the swollen bud.

It doesn’t take fucking long before you’re collapsing, walls clenching, teetering on the edge of your orgasm. It’s all that’s been on your mind for almost three days, all you’ve imagined, dreamt about, thought of.

Joel feels you, knows you’re close.

“Wanna cum all over daddy’s fingers, pretty girl?”

“Mhm,” you bite back a yelp, “so – close.”

“Know you are, baby. It’s okay, you can cum. Let me feel you.”

That coil, slowly winding since approximately nine-thirty on Friday night, not relieved by your hands, your toys, or your fucking pillows, snaps in one second. The tension breaks across your stomach. Your legs give; Joel’s free hand wraps around your waist to hold you upright.

You throw your head back against his shoulder again, jaw slack with a moan you know you can’t give voice to. Joel fucks you all the way through it, fingers coated in your cum only to dive straight back in, wetter and slicker than before.

There are stars in your vision. You can’t feel between your legs. The office is slowly blinking back into view, but Joel gives you no time to recover.

He pushes you face down onto his desk roughly, hastily, like someone’s about to wander through his door any second. One ear pressed to the cold wood, you hear his belt clink, feel the teeth of his zipper graze your thighs. Hear his deep breaths as he drags his pants and boxershorts down to free his cock.

You’ve never seen him, obviously. You’ve pictured it, dreamt up what it would look like with your fingers deep inside yourself. And from this angle you still don’t see it, but when the weight of it springs against your ass, when Joel lines himself up and his tip dips between your cum-covered folds, you fucking feel it.

His thick head pushing slightly into your entrance, coating him in your slick. He’s big. You moan at the time he’s taking to just shove into you; it’s probably seconds, but it feels like fucking hours.

“I hear ya, I know,” he’s saying, but your hearing’s starting to fade. Blood pumping through your head, white noise rattling against your eardrums.

He pushes in, length separating your clenched walls, entering your wet, warm cunt with a deep growl from Joel’s lips and a gasp from yours. You open up around him, swelling as he pushes deeper and deeper.

“So – fuckin’ – tight for me, baby,” he groans, hands on your hips pulling you back onto his length. “You feel that? Feel how tight you are?”

“Mhm,” you reply, the stretch of his thick cock burning and igniting you in flame. Your eyes screw shut as he keeps pushing, further than you ever thought anyone could, until his tip kisses your cervix and you whine.

“Quiet, babygirl,” he says, pausing and placing a steady hand on the small of your back. “We don’t need anyone out there knowin’ what we’re doin’.”

“So good, daddy,” you whimper quietly, and he knows. He fucking knows.

He begins to draw back, hips leaving your ass, cock pulling out of your pussy. Your eyes roll closed, missing him the more he withdraws. Before he’s fully gone, he snaps back inside, entering you harder, faster, deeper.

You gasp, knuckles whitening with the grip of your balled fists. You bend one arm, biting into your sleeve to stop your whimpers from slipping under the door.

A couple more thrusts and Joel’s fucking you. Hard. He’s fucking huge, so huge it blurs the edges of your vision every time his cock hits against your cervix. He’s almost fucking whimpering behind you, growling your name with every stroke, groaning each time he bottoms out inside you and your tight hole wraps around his length.

You can feel the edge of the table bruising your pelvis, and it feels so fucking good. Everything about this feels good. Joel’s cock stretching you out, his hands gripping you roughly, your own hands outstretched to hold onto the desk for some sort of stability.

The only thought going through your head, only words your lips can part to utter: daddy daddy daddy.

“Good girl,” Joel hums, your moans like music to his ears. “Good fuckin’ girl. Know how naughty you are for me?”

You smile. “Yeah, daddy.”

This is the filthiest thing you’ve ever fucking done. Sure, you love sex, especially when it’s rough. But nothing you’ve ever done with anyone else, nothing you’ve ever had done to you by anyone else, compares to being bent over your boss’s desk and fucked dumb by him.

Calling him daddy, corporate managers slowly filing into a conference room just outside. Only an unlocked door separating them from you, writhing and throbbing under Joel’s cock, his rough hands on your hips, your name passing his lips in breathy moans.

Is it wrong? Yes. Do you care? Fuck no.

You know he’s close; his thrusts become sloppy, hips start hammering against you.

“Where d’you want it, baby?” he grunts, skin slapping.

You’re on the pill, and if you answered honestly, you’d tell him to finish inside you. But you know that if he wanted to do that, he’d just fucking do it. Wouldn’t ask. And you’re not prepared to waste time arguing.

“My m-mouth.”

“C’mere.” Joel slips out of you with no effort, you’re so fucking soaked for him, and spins you around. A gentle hand on your shoulder, he pushes you onto your knees, free hand jacking his cock over you.

It’s the first time you see him, fist tugging up and down a thick, veiny shaft; swollen, reddened tip spilling precum which his thumb collects and drags down his length, gleaming with your wet.

On instinct, you push forward, one hand coming to rest on his thigh, the other taking over from his on his dick. You pump him a few times, and then open your mouth wide enough to take him all the way until he’s brushing the back of your throat.

With a choke, you begin bobbing your head up and down, cheeks hollow, breathing deep through your nose. Joel moans, head rolling back, hand coming to hold your hair in a fist. He drags you back and forth a few times before he begins to shudder and you draw back, holding him steady on your swollen bottom lip.

He looks down at you and your eyes lock as he cums all over your tongue. You moan as your mouth fills with his warm, salty load. When his cock stills and he stops spilling all over you, you lean back and close your mouth, licking your lips and swallowing him.

“Aw, babygirl,” he coos, stroking your hair. “Good job. Such a good girl for me.”

You both take a few seconds to catch your breath before Joel’s hands hook under your arms and he pulls you back up, letting you lean against his desk.

Still in a daze, you feel him tug your skirt back down, fix your shirt. Tuck your hair behind your ears, wipe either saliva or cum from your lips.

“Good?” he asks, and you lace your fingers in his.

Your breath is still shaky, but through a sigh, you say, “Good.”

He nods. “Can hear Ken out front, must all be arrivin’.” He pulls you over to the door.

His fingers wrap around the handle, free hand coming up to cup your cheek. He leans down and presses his lips against yours. You open your mouth and let his tongue past, moaning into the wet, messy kiss.

Something in you almost wants to laugh, thinking about the fact you let him fuck you before you’d even kissed him.

When he pulls away, your hands take hold of his jaw, keeping him at your height.

“Have a good meeting,” you whisper, pecking him on the lips, “text me what you want for lunch.”

He growls, yanking the door open and passing by you, granting your wish to sit this one out. Something in you tells you not to wander far, though.

He’ll probably want to blow off some steam when he’s done.

----------

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#joel miller #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #ceo!joel miller #ceo!joel #the last of us #tlou #tlou fic #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #the last of us hbo #tlou hbo

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memphisflash · 6 months

Note

Hi!!! I saw your post and wanted to request :)

Could you write a early 70s Elvis X innocent reader, where we're one of the many girls that he brings up to his suite at the international hotel and as he expects for both of us to do the deed, he notices we're really reluctant and shy and he tells us we can do anything else instead of the dirty if we want to.

I think that would be real cute🥹

𝐒𝐤𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐒𝐤𝐢𝐧

Word count: 5,1K

Warnings: virgin!reader, innocent-ish!reader, age gap (reader is 19/elvis 35), small mention of guns, reader struggling with extreme blushing, elvis poking a little fun at reader, both elvis and reader taking a sleeping pill, fluffy, smut; non-penetrative sex, dry humping/grinding, gg rubbing, elvis cummin' in readers' panties.

A/N: honestly, i'm not as good at writing innocent!reader as other writers in the fandom, buuut i had fun writing this and i kinda wanna explore this trope more - a part two is already cooking in my mind, tbh. like i told @jhoneybees this turned into more than the request but oh wellll.. let me know what y'all think, lovies! 🩷

➼ Masterlist. | Read on Wattpad

When it came to boys, you had always been shy. When it came to men, you considered yourself pretty much a disaster.

Now it wasn’t like you couldn’t have a normal conversation with someone of the opposite sex. Shy you were, but definitely not unsociable. You liked going out to places with your friends, even friends of the male kind.

But it were men like Elvis Presley that had your hands trembling and your heart beating so loud it was deafening in your ears.

Never in your 19 years of life had you expected to be approached by a member of Elvis’ entourage in the showroom of the International to ask if you were willing to meet the man himself up in his penthouse. Your first reaction was to politely decline, but your friend who had dragged you along to the concert in the first place pretty much pushed you into the arms of Sonny West – another handsome man that had got your cheeks flushing crimson, but it couldn’t compare to the effect the raven haired singer on stage had on you.

The last thing you saw as you were whisked out of the showroom was your friend putting both her thumbs up, waving as a shit-eating grin spread across her face.

Talk about peer pressure. You didn’t stand a chance.

The Imperial Suite was lush. The kind of luxury you’d never experienced before in your life. It barely felt as if you were still in a hotel, this seemed like a whole apartment with several rooms, a living area bigger than your childhood home and a seperate kitchen. The interior in the living space alone was worth more than your car, you were sure of it.

But even if you wanted to gawk at the beautiful things in the room, you didn’t had the chance to. Sonny West had left, leaving you alone with the man who you had just watched perform downstairs. The man millions of men wanted to be and millions of women wanted to be with.

You felt like a deer caught in headlights as he walked toward you, like a predator about to circle his prey. Though once he spoke, introducing himself as if you didn’t know who he was, you didn’t miss how soft spoken he was.

He wasn’t like any other superstar hauling girls up to his room to have his way with them and then kick them to the curb once he was done with them. At least, that’s what you wanted to believe.

And perhaps it was because of that naivety that you managed to calm down, so much so that you had agreed to wear one of his silky pyjama button ups, neatly folding the outfit you had so carefully picked out for tonight on a chair near Elvis’ bed.

Elvis was sitting on his bed, back against the headboard, wearing his own pair of midnight blue silk pyjamas. The first few buttons of his shirt were left open, causing his chest hair and tan skin to peek out and it instantly made you nervous all over again.

“C’mere, honey,” his voice was soft and low, his hand patting the empty spot next to him.

You stared at him for a second too long, quickly snapping yourself out of it before he’d think you were an idiot who didn’t understand the English language. You hated being like this in this moment – after all, this was a one time chance and you didn’t want to ruin it by having him think you were not interested in him at all.

You were, you really were, but this was the kind of man that could send you into a frenzy.

You sat next to him, nearly forgetting to breathe as his warm hand found home on your thigh. In a reflex, you pulled your knees up to your chest and his attention shifted to your feet.

You had recently gotten a pedicure, chosen the baby pink to go with the outfit and open toed heels you’d worn tonight, and it didn’t go unnoticed by Elvis.

“You got real pretty feet, honey,” he grinned as he slipped his hand underneath the sole of your foot, caressing his thumb across the top and over your toes, admiring the color on your nails. “So tiny and dainty, like a little doll,”

“T-Thank you,” you blurted out in a stuttered whisper, mentally slapping yourself for such a stupid reaction. But it was better than letting out the moan that was bubbling in the back of your throat, which you quickly swallowed.

His hand moved from your feet back up your leg and you froze as it slipped in between your thighs, fingertips pressing into the supple flesh of your right thigh softly as he leaned in closer to you. You looked into his blue eyes that were slightly drooped and you had no idea if it was due to fatigue or lust, but you figured it was the latter. And although you’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel the same – your stupid body seemed to have a mind of its own – your nerves prevented you from fully giving in.

As you felt his hot breath against your skin and he was going in for a kiss, your eyes automatically fluttered shut. His lips were soft and warm, and as his tongue slipped into your mouth, so wet.

You let him take the lead, not because you had never been kissed before, but because you had never been kissed by someone like Elvis Presley before. He was the kind of man that had probably kissed a thousand girls in his life and it showed in his experience – he explored your mouth in a slow but heated manner, his hand moving from your thigh to your hip and the more he leaned into you, the more you sunk into the soft pillows and sheets of his kingsized bed.

You were doing alright until his lips moved to your neck, dragging down to your collarbone and his hand creeped underneath your pyjama top, cupping your breast. It was then that your breath hitched in your throat and your muscles tensed up uncomfortably tight.

Elvis noticed it immediately and pulled his head back, looking down at your face. As he saw how flushed your cheeks and neck were and you were looking at him as if he was about to murder you, he moved his hand down your ribcage and out from underneath your top. He placed a gentle hand on your hip instead and frowned a little, his eyes gentle.

“You alright, little one?”

The sound of his voice sounding so soft and sweet made you want to burst out into tears, because you felt stupid. Stupid for freezing when the most wanted man in the world wanted you, but you couldn’t help it.

You simply weren’t ready for sex. You valued your virginity and didn’t want to lose it to a man you were probably never going to see again.

“I’ve never.. n-never..”

“Never been touched by a man,” he simply finishes your sentence for you, a soft smile raising the corner of his mouth. You nodded and looked down, noticing how quick your chest was heaving up and down as if you’d just ran a marathon.

He shushed you gently, placing his fingertips underneath your chin to make you look at him again. You didn’t know what his reaction would be, but the sweet smile and soft kiss to your forehead wasn’t what you’d expected.

“We don’t have to do it tonight, honey. I ain’t gonna force ya to do anythin’ you don’t want.”

“You’re not gonna throw me out?” you whisper with wide eyes, trying to ignore the way your bodies were still pressed together and you could feel his very prominent bulge poking against your thigh.

He let out a laugh, the sound of it deep and rich. “Ya think I was raised by wolves? No, I ain’t throwin’ you out. You’re stayin’ that cute little butt right here, and we can do somethin’ else.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, biting your lip as another flush of crimson spread up your neck and to your cheeks. He squeezed your hip softly before he sat up, bringing you up with him, and as he sat against the headboard again, he quickly draped some of the covers over his middle, hiding the fact that he was still very much turned on.

“And you stop that blushin’ before your face stays like that, little tomato,”

A wide grin settled on his face, and you could hear the playful tone in his voice which made you laugh softly. You pressed the palm of your hands against your cheeks and try to gather control over your breathing, making your cheeks slowly return to their normal state.

Instead of sleeping with the man that millions of females all over the world would call you crazy for rejecting for, you let him show you around the suite. He showed you his collection of guns that were safely stacked away in black cases which scared and intrigued you at the same time – you politely declined when he offered you to hold a gold handle hand gun, but you did admit it was very pretty.

Then he showed you around his wardrobe, from the outfits he wore on stage to the ones he wore off stage. As he noticed you particularly liked a black, somewhat see-through, blouse with white flowers on it, he handed it to you like it meant nothing to him.

Again, you declined.

But Elvis didn’t give up so easily and as you two sat on the bed again, his jewelry case opened and exposed in between the both of you, he noticed you admiring his black star sapphire ring. Not thinking twice about it, he took it out of the case and slipped it around your ring finger. As expected, it was way too big for you.

This had Elvis go through his jewelry, looking for a necklace he didn’t wear himself anymore. Had to be in there somewhere, he knew it.

“Elvis, I can’t take that,” you gasped as he took the ring off your finger again and hung it on a simple golden chain. Before you even had the chance to stop him, he was already putting it around your neck, the ring resting heavy against your chest. “Elvis, I’m serious. This is too much, you don’t have to-“

“Looks great on ya, little tomato,” he grinned as you looked at him with wide eyes, grabbing your wrist when you went to take the necklace off. You wished he’d use another nickname for you, but you ignored it for now – you had more important matters to worry about. Like the 14 karat gold ring that was hanging on your neck.

As you went to protest again, Elvis grabbed both of your hands and lowered them. Once more, you blushed as he leaned forward and placed a soft, tender kiss on your lips. “I want ya to have it and to wear it every day. Somethin’ to remember me by,”

“As if I’d ever forget you,” you whispered, looking down at the ring as you swallowed down the lump in your throat. If Elvis had heard your words or noticed that you were about to cry, he didn’t comment on it. Instead, he closed his jewelry case, put it aside and settled in the sheets, half sitting up against the headboard. He opened his arms for you and you didn’t think twice to settle against his side, putting your head on his chest.

“Thank you, Elvis,” you whispered as you snuggled up against him, earning a kiss on the top of your head from him.

“My pleasure, honey.”

Luckily, in this position he couldn’t see that your cheeks were flushed and hot the way they’d been before. And as his fingers gently combed their way through your hair, you truly felt special. Something that you perhaps were not in Elvis Presley’s world, but for tonight you decided to indulge yourself in the fantasy.

Elvis picked up a book from his bedside table and with his arms wrapped around you, he opened it and started reading to you in a hushed tone. While at times the subject of the book was confusing to you, you listened with interest nonetheless. Maybe you were a little more interested in the sound of his voice and the smell of his cologne, but you fought off sleep that was slowly threatening to overtake you.

You didn’t want to fall asleep, didn’t want to miss a waking second of being with Elvis.

“You gettin’ sleepy, aren’t ya?” He smirked as he peeked down at you, noticing your eyes threatening to close a few times. You immediately shook your head as you raised it and looked at him, smiling sheepishly.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” you apologized, stifling a yawn. Elvis chuckled and closed the book, putting it to the side before he turned back to you.

“Go an’ lay down,” he ordered gently as he nodded to the empty spot in the bed. You did what you were told, slowly creating some distance between you two as you laid back in the bed, giggling softly as he pulled the covers up to your shoulders, tucking you in. “Now don’t go and get all nervous again, ‘lright? I’m just gonna lay down next to ya so we can cuddle, sound good?”

You smiled at him, truly appreciating that he wasn’t trying anything you didn’t want and that he was so sweet about it all. You considered him to be a true gentleman.

As you nodded, he smiled back at you and slips underneath the covers next to you. His body warmth is intoxicating as he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you closer against his chest. With him laying on his side, he has the perfect view of your face and he takes advantage of it by studying every little detail, his other arm slipping underneath your head so he could hold you even firmer against him. He squeezes your shoulder softly and then his hand moves to your face, fingertip poking your cheek softly.

“No blushin’…” He whispered with a small grin on his face as he noticed your cheeks were slowly turning red again. You looked at him and laugh softly, hiding your face in your hands. He immediately clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, grabbing your wrist to softly pull one of your hands away. “And ‘specially none of that..”

His whisper was low as he leaned in closer to you when he managed to pull your other hand down too, his lips finding yours once more.

You lost yourself in your second shared kiss tonight, and you felt a little more loose. Probably because he couldn’t comment on your blushing when he was kissing you.

Elvis had to force himself to keep himself under control – he wasn’t going to do anything you didn’t want, because he respected your need of not wanting to take things further, and he did truly enjoy your company without the intimacy part.

But he was still a red blooded man, and his hard cock that twitched against the fabric of his pyjama bottoms was proof of that.

And as you slowly broke the kiss and turned your back to him to hide your flushed cheeks, he took the opportunity to spoon you, your ass pressed against his cock in a way that had him humming lowly.

You didn’t move away, and he took it as content. With one arm still underneath you and one arm around your waist, he kept you close to him as he pressed his hips forward, letting you feel how hard he was.

You tensed up but as you felt him placing sweet, comforting kisses on your shoulder, neck and eventually cheek, your body relaxed again as if he was a God who could put you at ease right away.

It was a strange sensation, really… and although the way he was slowly grinding against you was definitely of sexual nature rather than just cuddling, you didn’t stop him.

Because it was turning you on more than you’d ever admit to anyone… or even to yourself.

“If you.. want me to stop.. I will.”

His breathing had quickened a little, words coming oit in a low stutter.

Telling him to stop would be a wise thing to do because you had no idea how strong your willpower was… you had no idea how far this was gonna go, or if he’d be able to stop.

But by the sounds of his low groans and soft moans, you knew it felt good to him. Really good. And even as your brain worked itself into a frenzy, you wanted to please him.

Show him that you were not completely clueless, or a little lamb that had no idea she at least had some kind of effect on men.

“N-No.. Don’t stop,” you whispered back, hiding your face in the pillow a little despite him not able to see the state your face was in.

Elvis cursed softly under his breath and took it a step further – thinking you wouldn’t notice when he tugged his bottoms down to his thighs, rubbing his bare cock against your ass. But you were only wearing his pyjama shirt and your panties, ofcourse you noticed it.

And yet, you still didn’t stop him.

The feeling of his cock against your ass had you letting out a soft moan of your own and this caused Elvis to grip onto your waist a little firmer, twirling his hips around firmly and slowly as he grunts deeply in your ear.

“Oh God, baby..” his breath was hot against your neck, his fingertips digging into your skin softly. “Such a soft ass,”

His words had your heart beating so loud you were scared that he could actually hear it, but if he did, he didn’t mention it. He was too busy focusing on the friction he was creating, working himself up more and more.

You took your face out of the pillow to inhale a sharp breath of air as his hand slipped underneath your top, fingertips grazing the curve of your breasts. You surprised yourself as your back arched and your ass pressed firmer against him, indicating you wanted him to use it to his liking.

And he did. Even had you gasping and moaning a couple of times as his cock managed to slip in between your thighs from behind, his tip and part of his length ghosting along your folds, missing your clit by inches. He apologized in a stuttered whisper every time it happened, but you could tell by the moan that rolled off his tongue that he enjoyed the feeling of his mistake.

And so did you, but you were praying he didn’t notice that your own arousal was staining your panties.

He did. He definitely did and it had him fighting the urge to tear your panties off and sink himself into you inch by inch.

His self control was stronger than he realised because he kept his hands where they were, grinding his cock against your ass, though he didn’t stop himself from making his “mistake” over and over again.

Seems like he wasn’t the only one getting worked up because as soon as you raised your leg a little, he immediately grabbed onto your thigh to keep it up. He moved closer to you, his cock resting against your clothed pussy.

“I can feel you’re wet,” he whispered in your ear, his voice raspy as he let you put your leg down again, though he didn’t move away, enjoying this close proximity.

“P-Please, d-don’t put it i-in,” you immediately said, a hint of panic evident in your face. He laughed softly and placed a hand on your tummy, keeping it there as he felt it was the safest place.

“I won’t, honey, I promise,” he said as he raised his head a little, looking down at you. You carefully made eye contact with him, cheeks flushed, teeth sunken into your lower lip. It took everything in him not to fuck you senseless right here and now. “Can I put it in your panties?”

The question sounded both innocent and like absolute filth at the same time. You blinked a few times, repeating the words in your head over and over again until you suddenly nodded, afraid you were taking too long to think about it. He smiled at you, pecking your lips sweetly as he whispered a soft “Really?” against your lips.

You nodded again.

You were curious… curious to how the skin on skin contact felt. He promised not to put it inside of you and break your virginity, and in your innocent naivety, you trusted him.

He pulled your panties aside, letting it snap back into place softly as soon as his cock was resting against your wet folds. You shuddered and gasped at the feeling of his warm length pressed against your exposed pussy, his tip putting the slightest amount of pressure against your clit.

He didn’t put his head back down again, this time leaning on his elbow so he could look at the way your face was truly resembling a tomato right now, soft breathless moans escaping you. He thought it was adorable.

His hand found him on your hip, fingertips caressing your skin softly as he started to move his hips back and forth at a snail’s pace. You swore you could hear the sound of both your essence mixing together, your arousal deliciously coating his length.

“Feels good, don’t it, baby?” He whispered as he keeps looking down at your face, not wanting to miss the way you could barely keep your eyes open, lips parted as soft moans filled his ears. He smirked a little as he could see you nod your head slowly, eyes fluttering shut.

He keeps his pace slow, afraid that if he’d go any faster he would slip in by accident and hurt you, and that was the last thing he wanted. Just because he kinda got his way with you tonight doesn’t mean he was going to overstep your boundaries.

But it was you who wanted more of that delicious feeling he was giving you. It was your self control that was threatening to slip.

“P-please.. Elvis.. faster..”

He grunts lowly at your words, lowering himself a little more on the bed again to hide his face in your neck and sprawled out hair, his hips snapping forward just a little faster. The feeling had you moaning a little louder, gripping onto his hand that was still on your stomach.

He laced your fingers together, concetrating on not fucking you by accident, no matter how much he wanted to.

“You’re so wet, baby,” he moaned in your ear, his tongue flicking against your earlobe which had your eyes roll in the back of your head. “Bet I could slip right in..”

“N-No!”

“I won’t.” he immediately said, laughing softly as he slips his other hand into yours as well. He keeps the pace steady – not too fast, and not as slow as before.

With the way you were holding each others’ hands and your most intimate parts were rubbing against each other, bare and raw, you felt like you were floating on a cloud. You hadn’t expected the night to end like this, but deep down inside you were glad it did.

Your only problem now was that you didn’t want any other man other than Elvis Presley anymore and he hadn’t even been inside of you.

You were completely ruined for anyone else.

Elvis lost himself in the pleasure and the feeling of you grinding against each other, and so did you. Part of you wondered what it would be like to have him push into you, how deep you’d be able to feel him.

Would it even feel good at all, or would it only hurt?

A million questions plagued your mind, but Elvis made you forget every single one of them with the way his cock was stroking through your folds and how lovely his moans sounded in your ear.

You weren’t planning to ask them, anyways.

Neither were you planning on taking it to that sacred part of the whole ordeal. You weren’t ready, and that’s what you’d keep repeating in your head like a mantra until you truly felt otherwise.

Besides, Elvis seemed to enjoy this just as much as the actual deed and you were right – he did. It was evident by the way he was freely moaning, the feeling of the fabric of your panties rubbing against the sensitive tip of his cock feeling like a lick of a flame against his skin.

He was close to coming undone and he didn’t try to stop himself, nor did he warn you what was coming – you’d feel it when it happened.

Squeezing your hands firmly in his own, his hips stuttering forward for a second before he pushed his hips forward firmly, you moaned shakily as strings of cum sputtered from his cock, shamelessly staining the inside of your panties. The baby blue piece of underwear that was one of your favorites was completely ruined and in your state of arousal, you couldn’t get yourself to care.

Elvis breathed heavily as he slowly let go of your hands and gripped onto your hip, groaning softly as he pulled his now soft cock out of your panties.

The loss of skin contact already had him yearning for more.

He rolled onto his back, ready to have you cuddle up to him and hold you, so imagine his surprise when you shot up out of the bed and rushed into the bathroom, locking the door behind you.

“Honey, you okay in there? Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for things to go this far,”

He sounded truly apologetic from the other side of the door. And you wished you could find the strength in your voice to tell him you weren’t mad, but rather embarrassed like hell.

You’d gone into the bathroom to take off your panties and clean yourself and after you did so, you’d caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror.

Your face was hot and as red as a cherry.

Splashing water on your face didn’t help, neither did the breathing exercises you taught yourself whenever you were blushing this much.

You felt like an absolute fool and it wasn’t until Elvis threatened to break down the door because he wasn’t getting an answer from you that you unlocked the door and faced him.

He saw the state of your face and chuckled softly, but before you could hide again, he stepped inside the bathroom and gently cupped your face.

“Jus’ breathe, little tomato. In through your nose, out your mouth,” he showed you how, as if you didn’t know what he meant, but you appreciated it nonetheless.

The nickname… not so much, but you didn’t protest.

You followed his example a few times and closed your eyes as you focused on breathing with him and the pads of his thumbs caressing your cheekbones.

You didn’t know what kind of witchcraft Elvis Presley was practicing, but he managed to help you calm down in the matter of a few minutes.

“There, all good,” he smiled as you opened your eyes to look at him, the heat disappearing from your face. He gently pulled your face closer to his own and pecked your lips, wrapping an arm around you as he took you back to bed – making sure you were wearing one of his boxershorts, before he’d get turned on all over again due to you being half naked in his bed.

Elvis settled in the sheets with you in his arms after he took a sleeping pill and when you asked him about it, he wanted to tell you no when you asked for one. But he couldn’t resist the way you fluttered your eyelashes at him and looked up at him as if he’d hung the stars and moon for you every single day the sun went down.

Your mother took sleeping pills due to her own insomnia and sometimes even when she was stressed, so it wasn’t a foreign thing to you. Elvis relented, figuring it would help you calm down a little, but he only gave you half a pill.

The two of you slipped into a relaxing state of drowsiness and with your head on his chest, you listened to the calming sound of his heartbeat. His fingers ran through your hair, twirling the ends around his fingertips, and you could hear his breathing get heavier.

Before he could fully fall asleep, you spoke up, making sure your voice was soft and sweet. “Elvis?”

“Hmm?” he squeezed your shoulder softly, pushing your body firmer against his.

“Can you.. can you give me a new nickname?”

It was silent for longer than you expected and you thought he’d fallen asleep, but before you could raise your head to check, he let out a deep amused chuckle.

“Why, honey? I like callin’ you my little tomato,” He smirked, his eyes closed, but he could picture the pout you were probably giving him as you did raise your head to look at him this time.

“It sounds weird… and I hate tomatoes..” You giggled softly, putting your chin on his chest, trailing your nail softly across his jaw.

“Fine,” he sighed softly, feigning annoyance but he let you know by the grin on his face that he was playing. As he felt your fingertip grazing along his lips, he kissed the pad of your finger. “How’s Cherry?”

“Cherry..” you whispered, testing how it sounded on your tongue.

You liked cherries a whole lot better than tomatoes.

“Alright, my sweet Cherry. Close your little eyes an’ get some sleep,” he mumbled sleepily, his hand resting at the back of your head, fingertips massaging your scalp softly.

You smiled and a flush creeped along your neck once more as you leaned in closer and kissed his lips softly. Elvis smiled and held you close as he drifted off into a deep slumber.

You did as well, sneakily reaching your hand to his bedside table to take the other half of the sleeping pill he’d given you.

There was no way you’d be able to get a proper rest on your own without the help of medication and as you fell asleep in Elvis Presley’s arms, you dreamt about what the two of you had done tonight.

Only in your dreams, you were confident to take things a step further, allowing Elvis to own you completely – body and soul.

#elvis #elvis presley #elvis smut #elvis presley smut #elvis x reader #elvis presley x reader #elvis headcanons #elvis presley headcanons #elvis fanfic #elvis presley fanfic #elvis x y/n #elvis presley x y/n #elvis oneshot #elvis presley oneshot #tamwrites #requests

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hunkpossession0 · 1 month

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From Park to Penthouse: My Life as a Bear Hunk

I was just a regular guy, trying to make ends meet and get through life. My days consisted of the usual routine: wake up, work a mundane job, come home, rinse, and repeat. Nothing exciting ever really happened to me. But all of that changed on a cool, crisp morning in the park.

I usually took early morning walks just to clear my mind. The park was quiet at that time, the only sounds being birds chirping and the occasional jogger’s footsteps echoing through the trees. That’s when I saw him—*the* guy everyone always seemed to notice, the bear hunk who owned the park every time he stepped foot in it.

He was the kind of guy who commanded attention without even trying. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a perfect layer of muscle covering every inch of his frame. His chest and arms bulged as he did his push-ups effortlessly, and even his sweat seemed to gleam like it had a purpose. His beard was thick, well-groomed, and his face was one of those ruggedly handsome ones you’d expect to see in some magazine cover.

I envied him—his body, his confidence, the way people looked at him with a mix of admiration and lust. It wasn’t fair. Why did he get to live such a charmed life while I was stuck being an average nobody?

As I walked closer, I saw something strange lying near a bench—an old, weathered medallion with strange symbols carved into it. It looked ancient, almost mystical. I don’t know what compelled me to pick it up, but as soon as I did, I felt a surge of energy pulse through my body. It was like electricity, but not painful—more like a powerful vibration that filled every cell in my body.

Then, without warning, everything went black.

---

When I opened my eyes, I was lying on the grass, staring up at the sky. I sat up, feeling oddly different. My body felt... heavier, stronger. I looked down and nearly jumped out of my skin. My once-skinny arms were now thick and muscular, covered in a light dusting of hair. My clothes were straining against my newly massive frame.

I reached up to feel my face, and instead of the usual smoothness, my hand met a thick, rugged beard. I scrambled to my feet, stumbling slightly as I tried to adjust to the new weight and power in my legs. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a nearby pond, and my breath caught in my throat.

I was *him*. The bear hunk.

Somehow, that medallion had switched our bodies. I was no longer the average guy who blended into the background. I was the man everyone noticed—the man everyone *wanted*.

---

It took a few days to get used to my new life, but I quickly adapted. As it turned out, the bear hunk wasn’t just a regular gym-goer; he was wealthy beyond belief. His penthouse apartment overlooked the city, and his wardrobe was filled with designer clothes that clung perfectly to my new body. Everywhere I went, people stared, admired, and envied me.

But I wasn’t satisfied with just looking good and being rich. I had a new plan—one that involved indulging in all the pleasures that my new life had to offer. I booked a luxurious vacation to a private resort, a place where the elite went to unwind and let loose. And, of course, where the hot twinks flocked to for a chance at living the good life, even if just for a weekend.

The resort was everything I could have hoped for. The sun was warm, the drinks were cold, and the pool was filled with gorgeous guys who couldn’t take their eyes off me. I’d catch their stares as I lounged by the water, flexing my muscles just enough to make them bite their lips in desire.

At night, the real fun began. The clubs were filled with twinks looking for someone just like me—someone who could take control and show them a good time. And I was more than happy to oblige. I could see the way their eyes lit up when I approached them, how they practically melted under my touch.

This was the life I’d always wanted, the life I deserved. No more being overlooked or ignored. Now, I was the one in control, the one who got to choose.

The medallion was now a distant memory, tucked away in the back of a drawer in my penthouse. I had no intention of going back to my old life. This was who I was now, and I wasn’t about to give it up. Not when there were so many more adventures to be had, so many more twinks to seduce.

As I stood on the beach, looking out at the endless ocean, I couldn’t help but smile. Life as a bear hunk was everything I had dreamed of and more. And it was just getting started.

#muscle bear #body switch #dick bulge #gay men #alpha jock #bearded man #bearded hunk #muscular #jock bulge #sexy hunk

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 10 months

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He'll Follow me Down Every Street, No Matter my Crime

PAIRING: John 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: You had an affinity for shiny objects. This time, a sting of pearls locked away in a mansion calls your name through the crowd of a party - only trouble? You have a hunch the man you help at the front door isn't all who he says he is.

WORDCOUNT: 11.9k

WARNINGS: Guns, blood, death, gore, heists, theft, suggestive mentions, mentions of sex, heavy flirting because reader's a tease, propositions of sex, drugs, the reader is loosely based on Cat Woman from DC, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You wouldn’t call yourself a good person.

Life had given you the short end of the stick early on, taking what little you had in your grubby hands and shoving it into the ground, making you watch as they stomped on it until all that remained was a remnant of hope. Like a shard of glass, you held it even as it cut your palms open. But there was only so much that you could hold until you longed for more of it—until you wanted to take the broken bits and try and form a mosaic out of them.

It started as petty crime—the theft.

You got good at it. Very good.

You remember the first time you tried to pick a man’s pockets; aged fifteen with a switchblade in your pocket that you had never used before, bought off a man in exchange for cigarettes. When you’d been caught, the man—looking quite like Albert Einstein, mind you—had snapped your wrist so far back you heard it snap in two places. It still aches on cold days.

In that moment, a firm resolve had taken over you. A rabid understanding.

No one was ever going to do anything for you, and if you can’t rely on your skills to get you through, then you only had yourself to blame when it all went bad.

As you said, it started with petty crime. Then it got a bit more serious.

You dabbled with blackmail and multi-level schemes that involved all sorts of money and luxurious items. Extortion.

You considered yourself quite the salesperson, admittingly.

But personality-wise: arrogant, prideful, and vain. The list went on and with no near end in sight. It was life, was it not? You were finally able to live it lavishly even from the time you’d just gone past the border of the drinking age.

But the best part about it was that you were entirely alone. Alone in every sense—not even a cat or dog to your name, much less a person to care for or about. It was perfect.

Years of this went on, and you mean years. This was a job to you, and as you slipped into the hugging form of a deadly red dress, and rubbed your lips with the exact same shade—#4A0000 Oxblood—it was enough to make your pulse thump with excitement. The thrill of this made you want to never let it go; adrenaline junkie down to the jitters in your fingers when you first got the invitation.

‘On behalf of Victor Lawson, you are formally invited to his mid-autumn get-together at his estate. Enjoy such finery as a five-course dinner, open access to his ballroom and gardens, and the pleasure of the host himself who’s eager to have you over. This invitation is viable to bring a plus one. We look forward to having you. ’

It was perfect. Perfect.

Chuckling under your breath, you think of the items that Victor had in that mansion of his—the jewelry and the raw cut gems. Your particular interest was a set of pearls that his mistress wore, well, wife now. Affairs are such messy things.

Slipping into black heels and looking into the full-length mirror, you smirk slowly at yourself, glancing up and down. You were the picture of elegant perfection—like a woman born and bred into money. Your penthouse was layered with the remnants of your spoils, stories on every counter or vanity; engraved into the pieces of fine metal and stone you wear on your wrists and neck. Bleeding wealth. Everything you have you had lied for, but did lies not take more practice than truths?

You consider yourself an artist.

“Perfect,” you clip the heavy earrings to your lobes, seeing the skin droop at the weight of rubies. Brushing down your dress, you hum, clicking your tongue at the thought of how pearls would better compliment the outfit. “No,” you grumble, frowning in disgust. “Nearly perfect.”

Walking out of the fabric curtain you have to block off your room, your heels click against the marble floors, creating a large echo over the vaulted ceiling; the place had a coldness to it, really. A separation.

Not that you cared.

Grasping the modest wool dress coat from the coat rack, you slip it on with a huff and fix the collar; hand moving into the pockets to take out your silk gloves and move your fingers into them. Last was the purse—a small black leather handbag that you let hang off of its strap on your right shoulder like another limb. The invitation was kept safe inside of the wool.

One last breath to try and keep your cool and stop the constant smirk that tries to force its way onto your face, and you call the elevator to your floor before stepping into it.

“The pearls are in the office,” you say, inserting your key and pressing the button for the lobby. “His wife leaves them in the glass display case if that maid’s words are anything to go off of. And tonight,” you hum, finger grasping your phone from your purse and pressing into the front to unlock it. A social media profile pops up and you stare, eyes half narrowed in lustful pleasure. “She’ll be wearing her sapphires.”

Victor’s wife is pictured in blues and silvers, and you had to admit, it wasn’t the correct color scheme for a mid-autumn ball. But you supposed she wanted to be the center of attention anyway, so her plan if that was the case would pan out perfectly. No one wears a blue that shade this late into the season.

You drop your phone into your coat pocket and shrug, blinking slowly as the small waft of the elevator music is interrupted by the ding of the doors; that sudden lightness to your head shows that it has come to a stop. Stepping through the opening, you wave to the doorman and plaster a sickly sweet smile on your lips.

“I’ll be back soon,” you explain. “Don’t miss me too much, then.”

He grins like an idiot. “Yes, Ma’am! Here,” the man scrambles, “I’ll get the door for you.”

“Oh, lovely, thank you, Dear.” Outside is a nice chilled breeze, leaves moving over the street only a small distance of concrete away—your driver is waiting patiently outside of it, the tinted windows up and the engine already running.

Your body moves to it.

“Ma’am,” he nods.

“Hello there, Buck,” you blink slowly at him, politely reaching out an arm and squeezing. “So good to see you again—and the Misses?”

“At home resting, thanks to you.” You hum, dismissing the comment as the man pulls at the car handle and moves to the side.

“It was the least I could do. Such a horrible feeling,” your lips mutter, “getting sick. If I only have to throw some of my money to get people to listen to their patients, it’s money well thrown. Do tell her I hope she feels better soon.”

“Of course, Ma’am.”

“Wonderful.” Sitting down on the seat, you carefully tend to your dress so it won’t wrinkle, picking at loose bits of wool from your jacket and gazing at your reflection in the glass. Such a vain little creature you’d grown into. Your eyes trail down your nose, lips, down the swell of your neck, and the bones of your face; running a finger over your cheek and trying to stop itching at the makeup you already long to take off.

But beauty takes time.

You’d look better with those pearls.

Buck gets into the car and locks the doors, and soon the entire vehicle is speeding off into the darkening sky. Your skin tingles with anticipation.

You enjoyed making those who’d broken the backs of others see a bit of your power when they realized you’d won, but the instances when you could go in and leave without a trace made you feel on top of the world. A woman with such a desirable position; an unforgettable ease of mastering a conversation.

It was addictive to watch them fumble around like idiots. Go crying to authorities about things they could easily buy again and again. It makes you want to never stop talking. Your fingers twitch at it—your heart pounds.

A sly fox’s smile comes to your lips, and you hum under your breath as the car brings you into the lion's den.

—

“Well,” Johnny grumbles, voice gruff. “I don’t understand why it needs to be me. Gaz looks better in a suit and everyone knows it.”

“Damn right I do,” the man in question replies, tossing a belt the Scot’s way, to which Johnny catches with no problem, slipping it into the loops of his dress pants with a heavy hand. “Don’t forget it.”

MacTavish's throat echoes with an unimpressed grunt, side-eyeing Kyle as he smirks. Grabbing the fly of his pants, the man runs it up, moving his feet to make sure he’s not stepping on any of the fabric.

“Garrick needs to be nearby in case of trouble. He’s your oversight.” Captain Price leans against the far table of the hotel room, glancing at his watch. “Five minutes, Sergeant.”

“Five bloody minutes,” Johnny groans, blinking as he tightens his belt. “Couldn’t at least have bought a bigger dress shirt? Suffocating over here, Sir.”

Ghost glances at him from where he stares out the window, arms crossed and fingers tapping his bicep. “You can blame Laswell for that.”

“Just make sure you don’t rip it in the middle of the party,” Gaz pats his shoulder, and Johnny glares, sighing out aggressively at the pull of fabric. The fellow Sergeant is smug and amused. “Can’t go in and bring you another.”

“Ah,” the Scot grunts. “Don’t worry, it’s just a little public embarrassment. Nothing I haven’t gone through before.”

“Story for us?” Simon utters, raising a brow.

“Not one I’m willing to tell.

John interrupts the banter session easily with a sharp command. “Alright, you can trade stories all you want later, we’re short on time and the driver’ll be here any minute. Soap,” Johnny blinks over, buttoning up his waistcoat and pushing the blue tie under it. Price stares, raising a brow, but his lips pause for a minute. “...Why are you wearing a bloody blue tie, Son?”

“What?” Johnny’s face pulls in, stubble shifting the scar on his chin. The sides of his eyes crinkle in. “Why’s that matter?”

John’s eyelids close for a moment before he takes a long breath and looks to the side, shaking his head. “No time,” he utters before coming back to it. “Go through it again, Sergeant. Slowly.”

“Target is Victor Lawson’s computer—located in his office at the back of the mansion. Three rights and a left is the fastest way there, barring breaking down the walls.”

“Good,” John grunts, seeing Johnny’s smirk at his joke. The Scot goes and grabs his suit jacket. “And?”

“One gun and a knife, hidden in the back garden with a silencer near the fountain,” the man licks his lips. Gaz passes over an earpiece which he hooks into his shell, clear and nearly invisible against his skin. “M9 with only one magazine. Fifteen rounds.”

“You don’t have to use it,” Simon weighs in. “In situations like these, opt for a knife. Less mess to clean up if you do it right.”

“Don’t want to think about the types of parties you go to, Lt,” Soap sends a sly smile the Lieutenant's way. “Think I’d shit my pants if I saw you at one. Mask or no.”

“I like parties,” Ghost says blandly back, blinking at him slowly. “They don’t skimp out on the appetizers.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Johnny mutters, moving back and hurriedly flattening out his suit. “Right! Time to get this over with, boys. I’m goin’ in—don’t miss me too much while I’m away.”

Price’s hand goes to rest on his shoulder, moving him out of the door as Kyle calls his good luck to him. The Captain moves a hand in emphasis on the words he ends up speaking.

“In the inside pocket, you have a USB,” he says, and Johnny’s blue eyes stare at him, serious with his lips flat. “We don’t need the entire system—just plug it into the box and let it do the work.”

“Rog.” Soap asks, “Anything I need to expect from this Lawson fellow?”

John grunts. “Negative. Man’s a drunk who likes to flaunt wealth, he’s in the background of his practice; has others do the dirty work for him. But we need his intel.”

“Then I’ll get it,” the Scot assures firmly, steel determination in his gut. “M’not so easily distracted, Price. It’ll be like takin’ a walk through the park.”

—

“I’ll be back soon, Ma’am,” Buck comments as he opens the door for you, sticking a hand out to assist you out to the red-carpeted grounds. “Call if you need to.”

“Thank you, Buck, I will,” you chuckle, nodding.

Walking past you run your hands over your jewelry, slipping your fingers up the inside of your wrist until you grasp the sleeve of your coat and pull it down more. It was growing colder out, and it was best to get inside the party as soon as possible. Already the air was thick with the noise of music and small talk, properly illuminated by lights that spilled out like water from a river.

Around you, the front entrance was guarded by the tall sentinels of rose bushes; decorations in the form of strung lights and pumpkins placed and carved to immaculate detail. The mansion itself was the biggest on the tree-strangled street, and cars were coming and going quickly; lights moving through the dark trunks.

Looking and walking slowly down the red carpet to the front entrance, your shoulder is lightly grasped.

“Ma’am?” You startle, head whipping around to the sound of a deep Scottish accent.

Your eyes lock with cobalt blues, a large man behind your form holding a piece of paper in his hand. You look at it quickly, the calloused and firm fingers extending the item.

He was in a black suit, and while you fight to raise your brow at the deep shade of blue for a tie, you find that the outfit suited his stocky build quite well. You could see the size of his biceps easily, and in the light, your face nearly went slack at them.

Not even mentioning the thighs.

“Apologies,” the stranger breathes, backing up a step and releasing you with a soft smile on his lips. “Saw this fall out of your pocket. I’d hate for you to lose it so close to the door.”

Staying silent for a moment, you quickly fall back on your natural charm.

“My pocket?” Your hand extends, brushing against the man’s own before lightly taking up the familiar shade of the invitation. You flip it over in your hands, eyebrows raising in slight shock. Your other hand pats down your coat pocket, finding no firmness besides the body of your phone.

“I didn’t even notice,” you chuckle lightly, focusing on the man ahead of you. A small flutter of upset moves in your veins. “Thank you very much, Sir. That would have been embarrassing.”

“Ah,” he shrugs his wide shoulders. “Don’t worry about it. And Johnny’s just fine, Dearie.”

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Johnny,” you move up and lean forward, lips shifting to leave a delicate kiss on the side of his cheek. Hearing a slight hitch in his breath, you hide your smirk, leaning back fully to stare into Johnny’s slightly widened eyes and the reddish sheen to his cheeks. He clears his throat, mohawked hair shifting in the breeze as he turns his head to the side for a moment. “You’re a lifesaver.”

You tilt your head.

“So, here for Victor’s party then?”

“Ah,” the man recovers quickly, nodding as you turn and begin a slow pace. The both of you stay near each other as the stairs to the front door get closer. “Yes, Ma’am. Have you…been to one before?”

You humph, shaking your head. “No way, I only ever go to these things once. Waste of time, in my opinion.” Your eyes send Johnny a glance to find him blinking at you in confusion. “What? You thought I would be all snobby about it? Most of the people here can’t even take back a shot correctly.”

A shocked chuckle exits the Scot’s lips, eyebrows raising on his face. A far more casual smile now takes form on his part.

“What are you even here for then,” he asks cheekily. “If you don’t mind me asking?”

You smirk. “The spoils of war, of course.”

“You’re strange, you are,” Johnny utters, but finds he can’t wipe the grin on his face for the life of him. In his ear, Price’s voice grinds through like iron.

“Soap, stay on schedule.”

He grunts, rolling his shoulders. Johnny’s thumbs go to rest in his belt, looping the brown leather.

“War’s a big word, Bonnie,” his blues glint.

“Would you prefer quarrel,” you dart back, and your spirits seem to enjoy this conversation some. The man was…new, so to speak. There was something different about him that you couldn’t place; he felt more layered than the normal people at these events usually came. Like you could speak to him for hours and only crack the surface. But, even by just his eyes, you could tell that he was intelligent. Very much so.

“That might be more your speed,” you end with a tilt of your head, jewelry lightly clinking against one another.

“I think you’d be surprised.” Your chuckle is smooth and easy to listen to.

“Perhaps.”

Johnny hums, smirking as he pulls ahead a tiny bit. “And what do I call you, exactly?”

“My name?” You find a hand in front of you when you make it to the stairs, and you mildly get thrown off by it. Blinking quickly for a moment, you recover and delicately place your hand into the Scot’s, smiling as he helps you walk up.

His flesh is warm, and you can feel it even through your gloves as it bleeds into you. A warmth that pushes back the chill of autumn, sending winter scampering like a dog with a tail between its legs. You ignore how your breath hitches at that action.

“You can just call me Cerise.” Is what you say as the doorman draws near and as Johnny stares with an intrigued furrow on his brow. Before the Scot can speak, you’ve already walked away, heels clicking and your purse swinging; hand whispering out of his like it was never there.

Blue eyes watch, but they quickly snap out of whatever trance was there beforehand.

There were things to accomplish—adrenaline was already taking hold in Soap’s bloodstream, making his focus hone in. While your conversation had been…interesting, and you were quite the beautiful woman, of course, he had a job to do.

But first, he had to get through the door.

As you were speaking with the doorman, easily handing over your invitation, the man slips his hand into his pants pocket to get it ready; voices from other guests all around.

But his hand touches nothing.

Immediately, Johnny feels his stomach drop.

“Where’s the fuckin’ invitation,” he hisses under his breath down the line, trying to keep his voice low. Soap’s eyes darted about on the ground, thinking that maybe he’d done the same as you and just dropped it. But no, nothing.

John’s hurried voice moves through the earpiece.

“Sergeant, don’t tell me you lost the fucking invitation.”

“It was in my pants!” He growls. “Bastard things that are making my thighs go numb.”

You’re none the wiser to the conversation in the man’s ear, only pausing when you hear the implication of something not going right. As the doorman takes your invitation and looks it over, you turn your head to the side and watch for a moment in confusion as Johnny pats his thighs and backside, hands over the pockets and his body turning in a circle.

“Johnny?” You call, walking towards him. The man freezes, eyes snapping back to you. You grab onto the tips of your gloves and begin taking them off, stuffing them into your coat. “Are you alright over there?”

His jaw is clenched, eyes simmering with annoyance. “Just fine, Hen, no need to ask,” your eyes narrow, slowly dropping to where the obvious lack of an invitation sits in his hands. “Just…uh, seems I’ve gone and lost something o’ mine.”

He goes back to whispering under his breath, throat bobbing with irritation that could rival even yours on a bad day. Even his cheeks gained a sheen of red to them, and not from the wind.

You blink, sighing under your breath.

You weren’t a good person, but you weren’t heartless either. The man had been good company, the least you could do was repay him. A good conversation is so hard to come by these days.

“Oh,” you play off with a chuckle, turning back around and speaking loudly. The doorman looks up at you quickly. “I’m so sorry, I forgot to tell you about my boyfriend, Johnny.”

The air halts, and wide blue eyes snap to the back of your skull.

“It must have slipped my mind in all the excitement, you can understand how such a magnificent property just takes all of my attention.” You chuckle, pushing an embarrassed sheen to your eyes and body—hunching your shoulders in, gripping by the elbows, even bending your spine lightly forward to lean closer to the man. “It’s so beautiful here, I was so caught up in the decorations. He’ll be my plus one for the night.”

The doorman chuckles with you, glancing at the Scot who quickly clears his throat; taking this blessing for what it is and ascending the last steps in record time.

A hand hovers over the small of your back, a bulky body slotting beside your own. Your nose twitches to the scent of hair gel and…you pause, swallowing down saliva. Was that the tang of gunpowder?

“It’s just fine, Miss,” you blink back to the present. The invitation is put to the side. “You’re both welcome inside. Please, enjoy your time in Mr. Lawson’s estate.”

“We will,” Johnny grunts, nodding. “You have a good night, Mate.”

You smile politely, the two of you walking through the open doors. A pair of lips moves to your ear, the words said with low reverence.

“I owe you, Bonnie,” he pauses. “Big time. Nearly scuffed the entire thing.”

“We can’t have that,” you ease, voice like water. “Quickly, what’s your last name?”

You both walk side by side, yourself only stopping for a moment to shimmy out of your coat. Hands move to the back of the collar, helping.

“Last name?” Johnny asks, confused at the instant question. “Why?”

“They’re going to introduce us when we walk in—I need to know so I can tell the announcer.”

The Scot stares, holding your coat as you take your phone out and put it into your purse. He passes off the item to a man near a side door, who asks your name and scurries off when he has it.

“MacTavish, full first name, John.” He grunts, admitting, “There’s a lot more to this than I expected.”

“It’s all for show, Mr. MacTavish,” your hand moves to his arm, lightly taking him along with you and restraining the want to squeeze the muscle under your fingernails. The man was as built as an Ox—what did he eat?

“There’s always more to things like this,” you chuckle.

A small silence falls, but it’s broken when Johnny’s curious nature betrays him. The way you had lied to the doorman…it had been so natural for you it had made him pause now that he had the time to think it over. Hell, he’d half-believed you himself.

Price had even been silent in his ear since then, only a shocked grunt moving across the line. As you shift a hand-held mirror out from your purse and bring it up, looking into it, he speaks up.

“You were good at that,” the Sergeant mutters, looking around at the paintings and decorations in the hallway, hearing more people entering from behind. The noise echoes from ahead as well, the party in full swing. “It was quick-thinking on your part, any reason as to why you’d help me?”

A smirk flicks over your lips as you snap your hand-held closed, moving it back into your purse. “You’re asking if I want to get into your pants?”

Johnny nearly chokes. “N-no! Not at all.”

Your head tilts, side-eyeing him, heels hitting the floor and carrying your snake-like stride. Not once do you blink at him, studying; taking him apart. Johnny’s enamored by the way you do it.

He suddenly knew to be far more cautious around you than he had been previously. His fingers twitch at his sides, and he goes to push back his mohawk with a run of his palm over his hair. He licks his lips and turns his face forward with a heat writhing under the skin.

“It’s alright,” you explain. “I wouldn’t be opposed, but, unfortunately, tonight I have other things to fuck than you, Mr. MacTavish. Perhaps at a later date.”

The man is at a total loss, jaw as slack as a piece of paper in the wind.

But what shocked response he could give you is lost as you move into a far more open room, you both at the top of an overhang—pillars and a large chandelier, shining bright. Marble with real vines wrapped around banisters; tables full of food in such quantity it seemed excessive. But the people. Hundreds of them, all dressed their very best at the bottom of these double stairs.

Soap’s eyes went over all of them, studying faces in an instant and memorizing them for later. No Victor from what he could see…he just needed an excuse to slip away when everyone was occupied. He had to get to the garden first; get that knife and his gun that had been stashed. If it all came to worse, he couldn’t afford to get caught without one of them.

Gaz can only do so much as overwatch from outside.

You move to a woman at the left, smiling as you move to whisper into her ear your title and Johnny’s.

“Miss Cerise and her plus one, John MacTavish.”

The woman nods, and no later does she call into the crowd, moving her voice above the bob and flow of the conversation waves. Many of the men in the crowd choke on their drinks—eyes snapping up—at the mention of your moniker.

“The Miss Cerise and her plus one, John MacTavish.”

“Johnny,” you call, and the man blinks, seeing and immediately moving out his elbow so you can loop your arm through his. “I am curious about one thing,” you say as the scent of gunpowder returns.

“Yeah?” Soap asks, scanning the faces that now pause their speeches and look at the pair of you. He grows uncomfortable at the attention, but you seem to soak it up—particularly the glares from a few faces that you seem to be acquainted with. “What’s that then?”

“You’re not here for the party, are you?”

Bloody fucking Christ, who is this woman?

“What makes you say that, Bonnie?” He forces out, his muscles winding up; jaw working itself in a tight clench. The Scot’s stubble writhes with the force of it. Has he been compromised that quickly? Not possible. Johnny’s mind starts running, and Price gets into his ear to call a firm order to move away from you immediately.

But that would make your unblinking eyes worse, and Soap didn’t want that. The hair on his arms starts to rise, spine straightens like a stick. You felt it, feet going down the stairs without having to look at them, your head is stuck gazing at him.

“No offense, of course,” your voice even results in his feet wanting to disobey him, to turn your way. The way you spoke was hypnotic. A siren. Some womanly beast from long lost history, coming to haunt him when he had a job to do on a limited schedule.

You continue. “But you’re not right. You don’t fit into this crowd.”

“What?” Soap tries to push a flat joke. “Did my hair give it away?”

You study him, smirking. “No.” There’s no other explanation beyond that.

This was supposed to be simple.

Give him a gun and he’d be the most experienced shooter in this room; a jumble of cables? He’d have a homemade explosive in minutes.

But why the hell would they put him in a suit?

“Listen, Cerise, Hen,” Johnny levels, “I’d love to stay and talk, really, but I need to fuck off and find some of my friends. Thank you very much for the save at the door, but there are some things I need to take care of.”

“And here I thought I’d get to keep my fake boyfriend,” you pout, leaning into his side. He watches you tensely.

Your lips move in a laugh like a ringing bell. “But, yes, you’re right. I also have to take care of my entertainment for the night.” You move up to his cheek again, placing a kiss on his stubble as you both reach the bottom of the stairs. You whisper into his ear. “It was very nice meeting you, Johnny. Do tell me if you’ll ever take me up on the offer I gave you.”

Disappearing into the crowd, it’s like you were never there.

—

Johnny grunts as he tries to bend down, the fabric around his thighs and arms pulling tight enough to stop the blood in his veins.

“If someone doesn’t get me properly fitted,” he growls down the line, “you can find a new demolitions expert, Price.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Sergeant.”

“It was short notice, Johnny,” a Manchester accent follows.

Blue eyes glared at the bag hidden beneath foliage, a hand snatching out and grabbing it quickly.

“Ghost,” Soap huffs. “Good of you to join us with our late-night heist.”

“Figured you could use the support.”

“Oh,” Johnny scowls, “always. ‘Specially when I have to get myself surgically removed from this piece of utter shite.”

“Now you’re just being dramatic.” With a shake of his head and a growing smirk, the Scot takes out the M9 and the combat knife. Moving to attach the silencer to the gun. Blue eyes scan the garden rapidly; on the lookout for any guests or guards walking near the fountain at his back.

“Alright, I’ve got the gun.”

“Knife?” Ghost asks.

“Affirmative, Lt.”

“You’ll be smart to use it away from any prying eyes. Neck leaves too much of a spray—go for the gut and cover the mouth until they stop moving.”

There’s a moment of rustling fabric as Soap shifts the gun into the small of his back, the back of his suit enough to cover the grip but restricting the ability for a fast draw. Simon was right—the knife was the best option for him.

“You are stone cold, Simon,” the Sergeant smirks, eyes gazing over grass and gravel as the knife finds a home up his right sleeve, resting against his forearm. “Price, has Gaz checked in?”

“Affirmative,” the Captain comes back on as Johnny stands, re-hiding the bag into the bush. “Says he has eyes on from the neighboring mansion’s roof. He’ll lose you when you go inside, but if you need any guards terminated, lead them outside and he’ll take care of ‘em.”

Soap nods, head swiveling and brushing down his front. “Copy. I’ll keep it in mind.”

But as he’s walking, the Sergeant pauses, dress shoes getting brushed by the grass. A bead of silence lingers on him like a needle into fabric, a nagging feeling like an itch at the base of his skull.

“Price?”

“What is it?”

“I need you to look into someone else at the party, calls herself ‘Cerise’.” Johnny can practically hear the confusion over the line and he moves on to explain as he walks farther into the garden. “See if there are any files with that name. I have a bad feeling, and I can’t place it.”

“The woman?” Simon’s voice enters his ear.

“Aye, her. The things she said…they’re stickin’ with me.”

“Hate to tell you, Soap,” Price sounds slightly amused in his dim monotone way. “But the things she says stick to most men.”

He growls, face going heated as his chest tightens. “I’m not speaking ‘bout any of that.” Johnny’s head swivels up to the balcony of the ballroom, trying to pinpoint his location from the maps he’d memorized prior. “I’m talkin’ about how she—”

Speech halts in a fast instant of a choked-off sentence.

A flash of red catches his eye.

“Johnny?” Simon asks over the earpiece, confusion in his tone. But with a slack jaw, Johnny can only watch in awe and shock at the woman currently breaking into one of the locked balcony doors. And he knew they were locked. The informant had said they would be.

It was you.

Red dress and moonlight over your flesh, you look around the balcony before bending and opening up your purse, fiddling for a moment with the contents inside.

“Johnny, sit-rep.”

Unblinking, Soap watches as you take something out, moving closer to the door and inserting it into the door lock.

“She’s fucking picking the lock,” Johnny breathes, his breath making a cloud on the air.

“Who, Sergeant?” Price asks.

“Cerise,” Soap huffs, his jaw closes slowly, blinking as a hand comes up to rub at the back of his head. Only a minute or so later, you move back from the door swiftly, stuffing your items back into your purse and standing. Hand going to the handle, you push into it…and it opens with no trouble at all.

Walking through, Soap gapes as the door closes silently behind you.

“She got in,” he relays, and he hears Price order for Simon to contact Laswell—possible hostile inside of the mansion. “How do I go about this, then?”

“We need that intel—neutralize her if she interferes.”

Something swirls in Soap’s chest, but as he hurries to the stairs up to the balcony after you, gravel stuck into the grips of his shoes. With a grunt, he says, “Copy, Sir.”

Reaching the very same door you’d just gone into, the man slips inside without a whisper, clicking off his earpiece.

—

You trail a hand along the wall at your side, keeping to the barrier and resisting the temptation to fill your purse with expensive pewter statues and whatever other bits you can fit. But you can’t fight off the feeling for long, and before you take a fast right on the way to the office, your noiseless hand snatches at a small statue of a knight and stuffs it into your bag. A low chuckle breeds in your throat.

As you pass mirrors, you gaze at your neck, trying to imagine the glint of pearl and the way they’ll feel over your flesh; sitting heavy with wealth and dripping perfection down to the golden clasp.

“Three rights and a left,” you go off the words from the maid, pausing when you hear the sounds of staff or security. Heels muffled on the thin carpet, your body slinks along like a cat, red dress trailing with all its dangerous intentions.

You’re only one last turn to the hallway of the office when you’re unceremoniously grabbed by the scruff of your neck.

Eyes snapping wide, a sharp inhale is muffled on your lips as a hand settles over your mouth, ripped back along the carpet and shoved into the wall with a rattle of picture frames.

Ignoring the sting of your spine and the fingers that find purchase around your flesh, you blink away the sheen of panic and lock eyes into familiar cobalt blues.

“Johnny?” Your voice is muffled behind skin, and your hand snaps up to his wrist when pressure is set over your windpipe. Shock flies to every other emotion available, confusion taking precedence.

His face is rabid with anger.

“Who the fuck are you?” The words are snarled on his accented tone—lower than the bottom of a canyon.

Physical interactions, in this sense, were never your strong suit, of course. You specialized in getting out before anything like this ever happened, not when a hand was around your throat and starting to put pressure. In fact, now that you thought about it, the man ahead of you would have absolutely no trouble snapping your neck in a second. Despite all of your pride, a bead of fear moved up your back.

Yet, you still glare with all the venom you can muster over the barrier of Johnny’s hand. The weight at your neck stays, but the one over your mouth moves to lean into the wall beside your head.

“Get your hands off of me, you brute,” your words are tight, nails digging into his skin and making indents.

The man can feel your pulse under his hand, the thump of your blood as he looms, glaring heavily. He wanted answers.

“I asked you a question, Bonnie,” his jaw clenches, eyes unblinking. “I think it’s in your best interest to answer it truthfully, eh?”

“And what about you then?” You force out, “I guess my hunch was correct, you’re not here for the party.”

“I have a job to do,” Soap snaps under his breath, eyes moving the hallway as your free hand delves into your purse slowly. “I have a feeling you’re lacking in that department, Cerise, whatever the hell that name bloody means.”

“It’s French,” you snarl, teeth bared, and feeling insulted. “It’s elegant.”

“It’s a load of bullshit. That’s not even your real name, you minx.” His hand tightens even more, and your eyes gain a sheen of panic as your throat closes—his hold was unbreakable just as is, a trained and dangerous thing. Trained? Who was he? What did he want with Victor’s estate?

Was he a thief like you, or hired security?

“Answer me!” His face moves forward, nose nearly brushing yours and breath puffing your face. “Who do you work for?”

“Work?” Your voice raises, confused and angry. “I fucking work for myself, asshat! Do you think I’d waste my time doing this for someone else? Those pearls belong with me.”

His eyebrows pull in, face tight.

You lash out with the pewter statue in hand, aiming for his head. Halfway there, the man’s limb beside your skull flashes out and you find your wrist captured, shoved back into the wall, and outstretched beside you.

Gasping at the pain that ricochets your bones, your hand drops the item in an instant. Your brows go tight with old wounds, the memory of your first attempt at pickpocketing sparking up along with the pinch of marrow.

“Not very bright, Hen,” Johnny’s voice is graveled, glancing at the statue as it bounces along the floor. His lips twist, expression shifting as he takes in your prior confession one word at a time. The attack hadn’t even phased him. The scar at his chin roaves, as he huffs out as the hold on your neck loosens, “Now what did mean pearls—?”

Your knee reems itself upward and connects with his crotch.

Balking back, Johnny’s spine bends, curling in as a long and loud groan enters the hallway—a curse hurled out soon after. Not planning on lingering, you bolt off, jewelry jingling, and lungs heavy in your chest.

“What the hell,” you gasp, taking that last left and staring at the large wooden door at the end of the lineup; fancy gold handle. Fingers shaking and neck aching, you hear the sharp call from behind you as your body gets to the barrier.

Yet, there’s no time to pick the lock. A curt bark moves along the walls.

“Cerise!”

“Fuck,” you draw the word out, quivering hand moving through your purse to find your picks.

Johnny rushes the corner, one hand still on his aching lower body and the other pointing down the hall.

“Get over here,” he snaps.

“Fuck you!” You snap, glaring. “Stop acting like there was anything down there for it to hurt!”

“I am five seconds away,” the man hisses, “from dragging you out of here by your arm and throwing you to the fuckin’ security. You’re a damn thief.” He says it with utter surety, knowing as he puts all the pieces together.

“I am a businesswoman,” you back up a step as he moves even closer, the bulk of his body intimidating now that you know what it could do to you. “And, apparently, you think it’s acceptable to toss one around like you’re trying to have sex with it,” your eyes flare, back going flat to the window behind you. Johnny looms once more, arms caging you in as they go beside your head and the fingers curl. Both of you bark at one another with, at present, no bite.

“I’m not opposed to fun, Mr. MacTavish,” your smirk is venomous. “But I prefer to do it when I’m not on the job.”

“Stop talking,” he snaps, eyes darting to your lips as your gut spikes with adrenaline. His front is nearly flush with yours. “This isn’t worth it—you’re wasting my time. I need to get into that office”

“Then let me go,” your lips are near his, brushing with every word. Now your silver tongue has something to latch onto. He wants to get into that office just as much as you do. “We can help one another.”

“You?” Johnny scoffs, tilting his head as footsteps echo down one of the nearest halls. “Help me? Sorry, Dearie, but after that stunt of kickin’ my fucking balls in, you’ll have to wait for ‘em to re-drop before I put any sliver of trust into you.”

“Tempting,” you huff, both of your teeth bared like dogs—not once do either of you blink away. “But you can’t get that door to move without me.”

Johnny raises a disbelieving brow, and you elaborate.

“If the pins aren’t all moved in under ten seconds, and the door opened, an alarm goes off,” the man stills above you, and you smile in pleasure. “All security in the area will come rushing down on you and your horribly styled hair,” he snarls, eyes flashing, but you continue, face triumphant. “And I hate to say it, Mr. MacTavish, really I do, but I doubt you can pick a lock better than me.”

Johnny glares still, and this time, it’s far more sharp. Something moves behind his blues; consideration or exasperation, you don’t know. Hell, you still don’t know what he’s going to do when he gets into the office. But this is an alliance between wild animals.

The man is about to open his mouth, jaw already loosening, when a loud, questioning, voice moves from the end of the hall.

Both of you freeze, pupils going tiny from where they stare into one another's. Even the blood in your veins slows to a near stop; shock so potent it renders you speechless. Someone was coming down the hallway.

“Is anybody down there?” A voice calls, echoing off the ceiling. There wasn’t anywhere to hide.

Johnny moves back immediately, a hand going to the back of his suit to try and grasp at something as you hurriedly blurt out, “Kiss me!”

The man flinches, anxious eyes narrowed. He blinks rapidly. “What?”

“You heard me,” you snap. Footsteps get closer and the Scot looks at you like you’ve gone mad.

“I am not fuckin’ kissing you, Bonnie,” he says bluntly, a chuckle on his lips. “No way on God’s green earth.”

“Do you want to get caught or do you want to play it off as a mistake?” Your hand moves forward and grabs at his tie, yanking him back to you. He barely budges, raising an unimpressed brow. “I swear to God, MacTavish, do not ruin this for me.”

The man glares, snapping, “I’m not the one that decided to kick a man in the dic—”

“Hurry up and kiss me!” No time.

Someone’s shadow cusps the visible part of the hallway, and you stare with a pleading expression, Johnny glances over his shoulder before he moves his hand away from the M9. With a deep grunt of disapproval, he leans forward swiftly and slams his lips to yours.

Gasping at the intensity of it, your face is smushed as the Scot’s hand comes up, grasping under your jaw and keeping you attached to him, the other stuck at your hip where it creases the fabric.

For a moment you even forget why he did it, and your body melts slightly as he huffs through his nose—your fingers finding his waist. He shivers as they dig in, and he pushes you into the wall, making the dichotomy of warm flesh and a chilled window leave your eyes nearly rolling to the back of your head.

When your tongue brushes his lips, soft smacking meeting your ears, he hums, leaning into you harder. Neither of you fight it when your lips meet again and again, this time making your hand go to the back of his head, greedy mouth opening when he growls into your flesh. It’s nearly feral with clacking teeth and a massacre of senses. His fingers knead at your jaw slowly.

“E-excuse me,” Johnny rips himself from you, whipping around with a red face. Keeping you in front of him, his pounding heart makes his eyes blur for a moment, attempting to focus. You peek over his shoulder, face burning like a million suns, but a smirk forcing itself forward.

The man behind the mysterious Scot is older, and not part of Victor’s security at all. Just a partygoer who had gotten lost along his way. How he even got back here through the main way without being spotted was something of an achievement, you supposed.

He stutters into the heated air. “Sorry to…erm, interrupt, but I don’t suppose you two know the way to Mr. Lawson’s garden?”

The both of you are brainless for a second, Johnny’s hand still on your hip.

“Two lefts and a right,” you utter on swollen lips, eyes smug. “Door’s already open.”

He hurries off, without a glance behind him, and silence falls again.

You blink at the man now suddenly unable to meet your gaze, backing off of you like you’re made of red fire. Your head tiles even as molten heat rages in your bloodstream, pounding in the base of your throat.

“My, my, Johnny,” you draw out, leaning closer as he sends sharp glances. “I’m impressed, who knew you had that in you?”

“Stop it,” he ends the subject, voice fast and firm.

“And here I thought you’d be a bad kisser. Very attentive to a woman’s needs.” You smirk, slinking past him and muttering in his ear, “Gold star for you, Mr. MacTavish.”

“Get the door open before I change my mind!” He snaps, but you aren’t put off by the darkness of his eyes.

You raise your hands, tossing a look over your shoulder.

“How did I know you’d be so pushy?” The man’s jaw moves as it clenches, nose twitching. He runs a hand over the back of his neck and glares.

You kneel, opening your purse and snickering as you grasp the picks and twirl them between your fingers. They were metal—long and bent to be inserted into the lock and manipulated until you found the correct sequence of pins inside of the mechanism. Inserting the first pick, you take and turn the knob slightly to the left, keeping it like that as you hurriedly insert the second.

“Ten seconds,” Johnny utters, watching closely as his anger simmers down to annoyance with you. Yet, he can’t deny that he liked that kiss, either. “Bastard has a lot to hide.”

You hum under your breath, face close to the door and ear twitching with each click. “Not for long.”

White pearls glimmer in your mind.

Feeling around, the pressure from one pin to another is easily definable to you—years of practice moving from brain to brawn flooding out. With every bit of loose metal identified, the handle is moved by the first pin to keep them from slipping back down.

“Five seconds,” the man behind you forces out, looking back from you to the hallway, anxious about getting caught.

“Do shut up,” you sigh harshly, head tilting. “Stop breathing down my neck and make yourself useful.”

“Doing what,” he grunts, blues getting stuck at the back of your scalp.

“Hand near the door,” your voice is easily forced to sound hurried. “You need to push it open, shoulder and all.”

“When?” He barks, already rushing to hover his large limb over your head. You finally get the small snap of all of the pins in place, a click of achievement.

Your heart skips a beat, yet you say casually, “Now.”

He nearly barrels it down, and your eyes widen as he moves through with the force of a bull, your left-behind form kneeling as the man’s shadow dashes. You blink a few times, brows pulling in with distaste.

While you should have been happy, all you do is stare with a raised brow at Johnny as he stops the inside handle from making a dent in the wall, head on a swivel.

“I said to push it open, MacTavish,” you grunt, standing. “Not bring it down, you idiot.”

He turns as you fix your clothes, taking out your compact mirror once more and running your hands along your neck; slinking into the office. Johnny huffs, rolling his eyes.

“Forgive me, Cerise, if I didn’t want the entire bloody party comin’ to me.”

You wondered if now was a good time to tell him you lied about the alarm but decided it was better to hold off until you had your prize. The less he knew, the better.

“Yes, yes,” your voice is low, “are you going to tell me what you want with this place or am I going to be left in a well of intrigue?”

“You’re not gettin’ a peep out of me, Dearie,” he levels looking around slowly—always keeping an eye on you. Johnny doesn’t trust you, but, hell, you don’t trust him.

Shrouded in mystery.

You shut the door behind you, gazing with glee at the expensive decor and knick-knacks. Was that a gold statue of a deer, you spied? Oh, that would fit just perfectly on your foyer’s side table. Pity you can’t just carry it out of here.

“Such a tease,” you hum, sauntering like a fox over the hardwood. “But I have to admit, John, I don’t care a large deal. You’re not important to me.”

“Likewise, Thief,” he grumbles, eyeing the way your hips sway with every step.

There’s the click of a safety going off, and before your fingers can card along the glass case set into the side wall, keeping velvet boxes in their clutch, you freeze. The door’s lock is reinstated.

Eyes still, you stare at Johnny’s reflection in the glass, heart slightly pounding faster. His face is staring, lips pulling into a smirk.

“As much as I’m just loving our little session, Ma’am, I just need you to understand something, yeah?”

You don’t speak, don’t blink. You hate to admit it, but you feel a droplet of unease as it enters your bloodstream. Had he had a gun this entire time? Your eyes find it now, an M9 hanging from his right hand. It’s black body and the long silencer, an image of death if you’ve ever seen one. You’re not new to guns—no, no, not with how you’ve chosen to live your life; the world you’ve taken by the throat and throttled. But getting threatened with one never became easier.

“I think I understand just fine,” you say, smoother than you feel. Shifting your head, you look over your shoulder, raising a brow. “I have business to attend to, MacTavish. I suggest you do the same.”

“I can’t have witnesses,” you laugh, shrugging. Your hands go to the clasp of the glass cabinet, flicking it to the side with a slide of cold metal.

“And I can’t go without these pearls, do you expect me to care about what you can or can’t have? My needs outweigh yours.”

A low rumble. Johnny’s hips shift weight, and that gun still hasn’t risen from the side. He wasn’t going to shoot you, though you recognize that it may be a bit of a shock to him as well as to yourself.

“I very much doubt that,” enters the air with an accented drawl.

“Doubt it, then,” your bluntness is cold and precise, attention already taken as you move to grasp one of the jewelry boxes, pushing the top open with a squeak of the tiny hinge. A silver sigil ring meets you, and your lips twitch at its shimmering material. “Just stay out of my way.”

“Bloody fuckin’ bastard,” the Scot utters under his breath, shaking his head harshly before his feet take him to the desk set near the back. He allows you to stuff your purse to your fancy, even as his mind screams at him to just put a bullet in you and end this—there wasn’t time for games. Certainly not ones played with a damn fox like you.

The memory of the kiss still sears the man’s brain, until Johnny thinks of every interaction you two had had over this fast-paced and stressful night.

But now it was time to hone in. Clean-up later.

“Price, I’m in the office,” Soap mumbles through the line, clicking his earpiece back.

“Good,” the reply is swift. Johnny ignores your small intrigued look, not commenting on the amount of valuables you suddenly have bulging out of your purse. Like a kid in a candy store. The sight is almost enough to make him smirk at you. “Insert the USB and let it do its work. Should take a few minutes—hunker down and assess the exits. There are three floor-length windows behind the curtains; if it comes to it, break through and drop into the pool below.”

“Swimming lesson?” Soap jokes, patting his inner jacket pocket and producing a small black USB stick.

“Eager, are you, Sergeant?”

“Not particularly, Sir.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Ghost joins on, dry response adding to the choir of strange humor.

Johnny’s fingers move to plug the USB into the port, hearing the click of it inserting and stepping back as lines of code jump across the now illuminated screen—files pop up and disappear just as quickly, and the blinking light on the stick tells him all he needs to know about if it’s working or not.

“Johnny,” Simon pipes back in, and the man shifts his body to the side, hand coming up to his earpiece on reflex.

“What is it, Lt?”

Across the way, your eyes glint.

Lieutenant? So the man’s military? Jesus, that changes things. I thought he was just some guy trying to get dirt on someone he disliked. Business partner, maybe. But military?

Your shoulders get a bit more tense, but it doesn’t stop your fingers from brushing your real prize—the last box inside of the case; red leather. It was all but calling your name like a veiled ghost of lust.

“Got a hit for a file with an Unknown, alias ‘Cerise.’ Laswell dug through the records.”

“Do you?” Johnny licks his lips, feet backing up a step and swinging his weapon. “Lay it on me, then.”

“Not much to relay—multi-year investigation, borders on some of their top classified cases for untouched HVTs. Don’t even have a description. String of high-caliber thefts, blackmail, extortions, and suspected of multiple murders to end it all off. Woman’s been busy.”

“Well,” Soap draws, tilting his head with raised brows. “Isn’t that just lovely?”

But the last part stuck with the Sergeant—murders? Call him naive, but you didn’t seem the type for that.

Blue eyes linger on you, slipping up and down with a twitch in their lids. He sees your face light up as you pop open a jewelry case; lips peeling in a violent smile as the round bodies of elegant and expensive pearls meet the light. Hell, Soap nearly hears you squeal.

Murder? But he knows that looks are deceiving.

He addresses Price, peeling his eyes away and taking a long breath. “Any advice, Captain?”

“She’s not the mission. Get what we need and get out.” It wasn’t shocking.

“And Gaz?”

“Still on overwatch—getting antsy. Says there are more security patrols in the gardens but they haven’t done anything more than speak to an old man.”

Johnny blinks. “Say again, Sir?”

“Old man,” Price repeats. “Have him out by the gardens, moving about; asking questions.” A pause. “Why?”

“We might have a problem,” Soap growls, and not a second later there’s news being relayed.

“They’re moving up the stairs into the mansion, Soap.”

“Fuck me,” the Sergeant snaps, rushing to pull at the curtains behind him, seeing the pool far below—it would take a bit of a jump to land a safe distance from the concrete, but there were limited options.

Making out in a hallway pretending to be horny partygoers wouldn’t fix this.

You glance over at the ruckus, in the middle of clipping your prized necklace over your flesh, feeling the weight of it against your collarbone. The sensation of pleasure was so overwhelming your gut swirled with achievement like a storm at sea.

It was perfect.

Staring long at yourself in the glass reflection, your smile is wide and sharp—uncaring to the Scot’s sudden anxieties. You had your pearls and a few extra treasures, that was all that mattered to you. All that was left was your escape. Taking your phone out of your stuffed purse, you text Buck and tell him you’re ready for a pick-up and to park a little way down the street.

‘Need to walk the drinks off a little bit,’ is what you type, before hitting a firm send with a smirk.

Moving backward, Johnny still speaks hurriedly into the earpiece you had deduced that he has, and has probably had since the evening began. Fast-clipped sentences, and glances to the whirring computer, the USB stick you see inserted into its body. Your curiosity has always been your downfall, but you weren’t about to mess with whatever heist this was; especially involving the military and their forces.

That was a cat you didn’t want to drag out of the bag.

Making your way to the door, your hand is just about to grasp at it when you full-stop. Blinking slowly, your head tilts, your ear twitching to hear the muttering from beyond the barrier. With a moment of understanding brewing, a hand lands on the back of your neck and yanks you back, dragging you like a toddler for the second time tonight

Before you can shout at the brutish man, a hand is once more over your mouth, and a voice in your ear. Was this really the only way he could figure out how to keep you quiet?

“No speaking—you’ll just give away our position.”

You glare, unimpressed, until he releases you—blue eyes firmly leveled on your face in order.

“Keep it shut,” he harshly whispers. As your mouth opens, he raises a finger and clicks his tongue, moving away quickly as you stare past in insult. Jaw loose, your eyes glint with hatred, growl in your throat as you turn after him.

“I’m not fucking three, you asshat!” You exclaim under your breath. “I bet I’ve gotten out of more situations like this than you have. And would you quit dragging me everywhere?!”

The handle across the way is jiggled, Johnny glancing at the computer screen in desperation. It wasn’t done yet. He scoffs, face twisting.

“Debatable.” You vehemently roll your eyes, looking around the room. This wasn’t exactly good—but it wasn’t unsalvageable. Looking at the woodgrain of the door like a plotting snake, you decide you could always play it off as one of Vicor’s multiple affair partners. He had scores, no way the man could remember them all. Tell security that he’d invited you here to discuss child support or hush money; that had to be fair play.

You hum under your breath, sighing. How would you explain Johnny? A lover? Bodyguard? Your mind runs through scenario after scenario, until a large knife is shoved right in front of your face. You balk back with a choking sound, startled like a bird on a line.

“Take this before I change my mind,” Johnny grunts, grasping at his gun firmly.

Your eyes stare with a sneer at the combat knife, which wiggles as the man’s hand shakes it impatiently.

“I’m not taking that—are you mad?”

Soap’s face is as stubborn as stone. “I’m not leaving without my intel, and neither are you.” A look is thrown up and down your body which makes you straighten, heels situating themselves below you. “You wanted to be here, Dearie, so you can’t back out now, can you?”

“If I was here alone, none of this would have gone wrong,” you get into his face, eyes deadly. The door shakes as someone runs a shoulder into it—loud shouting from the hallway.

“You’re a vain little minx that plays mind games because she thinks it’s fun,” Johnny hisses, breath atop of yours and eyes unblinking. “Mind yourself, you hear? This is bigger than a necklace, you vain creature.”

You huff. “It’s funny you think I care.”

“Little—” The computer beeps, and Johnny’s head whips back around as the frame of the door begins to crack.

The USB’s light glints a steady green, and then goes off, just as the computer screen blackens.

“Price!” Soap barks. “USB is done uploading, I need intel from Gaz, now!”

“Everything below the window is clear, Sergeant—get out!

“I need something to protect the damn thing from the water,” the man is already moving back, gun clattering to the desk as he opens drawer after drawer for anything—even just a little bag of—

“Holy shit,” you laugh, picking up something that had fallen to the floor in Johnny’s rabid search. “Victor was getting up to it.”

Cocaine baggie—the Sergeant snatches it from you.

“Woah,” you huff. “Wasn’t aware you had an affinity.”

“I am beggin’ you to keep your trap shut.”

“Ooo,” you smirk, eyes shimmering. “I like that.”

Johnny seethes like a dog, looking at you as he dumps out the drug and rips the USB out, shoving it inside as white powder hits his dress shoes. From there, the thing gets shoved into his pocket with a heavy hand.

“Come here,” he takes you by the arm, pulling. With his other, he grasps his M9 once more. Your annoyingly smooth voice in his ear is a constant knife right to his brain.

“Of course, Handsome.”

“Sergeant, for the love of God, tell me that Cerise isn’t in that room with you.” Price’s voice interrupts the two dogs at each other's throats, baring their fangs with sharp intentions.

Soap tilts his head harshly, moving to the window with you beside him. For whatever reason, he fights his senses to leave you here to be caught.

“Then I won’t tell you, Sir.”

“Fucking hell, Soap.” The Scot huffs, smirk at his lips.

“In a worse way because of it, too.” His hand tightens on your arm and you only chuckle, fingers to your mouth as heat moves up Johnny’s neck. He clears his throat, looking away, muttering to his Captain. “Won’t bloody leave me alone.”

“Awe,” your free hand captures his bicep, running up the fabric of his suit jacket. “I’d never leave you alone, Baby.”

Soap suppresses a whole-body shiver, your heated kiss still strangling him every second he gets a whiff of your perfume. His feelings towards you were strange; potent like a snake to a mouse.

The worst part was that he didn’t know who was who in this equation.

Releasing you, your body jostles at the sudden lack of a brace, but you recover with a laugh and a raise of your brow.

Johnny takes his gun and sends four rounds into the glass.

Yelping, your hands go to your head, covering your ears and slightly ducking.

“Time to go, Sunshine!” Your waist is gripped, legs jerked up with a grunt. All at once your eyes widen, your brain understanding the total lunacy that’s about to take place.

“Wait!” You shout just as the front door is busted down. “I’m wearing tangerine quartz—i-it can’t get wet!”

He’s already in mid-air, a smirk on his face, peeling back the stubble on his cheeks as his body crashes through the broken glass.

There’s the sensation of flying, briefly experiencing what a bird lives before gravity takes over, stealing you just as it does your stomach. You yell sharply, but that’s all you get above Johnny’s heavy chuckle before water enshrouds you both. It sloshes over your head, and takes you down into its depths; chlorine makes your eyes burn before you snap them shut.

You’re taken by the first thing that strikes you as your waist is pulled back to the surface—Johnny hiking you upward with your back to his chest.

Who keeps water in the pool this late into autumn?

Gasping as your head breaks out of the water again, your nails dig into Soap’s wrist, loud commotion from far above, and the screaming of orders.

A bullet whizzes past your face.

“I’m going to need Gaz on this!” Johnny shouts, unwilling to let you go as his legs begin kicking, water running through his hair and flowing off of his nose.

There’s a muffled call before one of the security guards from the office window is struck in the head, a spray of red popping from the burst container of his skull—body slumping out of the hole. He hits the ground with a slapping crunch as you pant on fast breaths.

Getting forced back along with Johnny, you curse in the open air at the sight, eyes wide as your dress is utterly ruined by the pool.

You’re tossed upward, body grunting and skidding along the concrete as your palms slap the ground. Scrambling up, Johnny pivots with you behind him, taking his M9 and leveling it up, firing off a few rounds before the sound of your rushing heels strikes him.

Soap calls to you, but you’re already speeding away to the tree line, water leaving a long trail as you sprint to the best of your ability. The pearls around your neck glimmer, slapping against your flesh.

“What the fuck,” you gasp, heart rushing like a lion. “What the fuck!”

Grass moves near your feet, the estate slashing by—gunshots still echo, those loud booms moving over the night; you even hear the loud panic of the party, beginning to understand what they’re hearing.

Stumbling on a rock, your palms skin themselves along the ground, but you don’t wait to think about the sting. You push back up and keep running.

“Cerise!” Soap barks, running after, looking over his shoulder as his earpiece is full of loud orders.

A hand swipes at the back of your arm and misses as you pivot and grasp your purse strap, swinging it around until it slams into Johnny’s head.

“Fucking hell!” He snarls, hand raising to shield himself as you do it again.

“You’re crazy!” You yell, mind stuck on blood and bursting heads. Your purse is in the air, swinging from your raised hand; feet still backing up from the bulky form.

Blue eyes blink at you, occupied with both looking behind for pursuers and shots as you both move into the trees rapidly, circling one another even while escaping. “You’re shooting people?!”

“It’s my mission!” Johnny shoves out, jerking out a hand. “We need to leave—now!”

“I’m not going anywhere with you!” You yell, looking him up and down, backing up, and bringing your purse close to your chest.

Both of your eyes lock in a battle.

“Bonnie,” the man levels, “You’re not staying here with them—they’ve seen your face.”

“I like my chances better when I’m alone,” you swallow down your tone, evening it out to emanate the confidence that you always try to carry like a sword. You’re not going with Johnny—not now. Now you had to go through aliases; move again—run like a petty criminal. You had to hide your valuables and get your finances together.

Staring, you pant, water dripping from your nose.

You needed to disappear again.

“Don’t be a bloody fool,” Johnny hisses, moving closer. “C’mon, we need to leave.”

“You’re right we do—go, then.” It’s final. “I’m not following you anywhere,” your eyes darted his form, remembering how his weight had pressed you into your wall. “Enjoy your intel, Mr. MacTavish, but I have my own affairs to deal with.”

You slip your purse strap over your body and unclip your heels, dangling them by your finger as you stand back to full height with a deep breath. You’re scared now—nervous. Being around guns was one thing, but watching someone get shot was another.

No one was supposed to die tonight; you’re shaken.

“Cerise,” Soap opens his mouth, annoyance in his veins. But he looks into your eyes and pauses, seeing the fidgeting, the flightiness. The man stills, glancing at your visible heartbeat, gobsmacked.

You were afraid. The woman who’d smirked when he’d pushed her into a wall—the woman who had no terror of getting caught. Afraid of him.

He backs up a step raising his hand.

“Hey,” Johnny eases, lowering his tone. You don’t change your attitude.

“No, MacTavish,” you clench your jaw. “This is where our game ends. For good.”

Eyes lock; stare. They dig and they stay still, night aflame with chaos. The game had been fun, but, Soap knew the truth about this as well as you did. It was felt in the very air along the vibrations. He can’t drag you along back to the Exfil point—it would bring nothing of it but wasted time and energy. There wasn’t any time, and even as his instincts told him to level the barrel of his weapon with your skull…he couldn't do that.

He had to let you go.

There aren’t any words spoken; none said in parting or goodbye—in all accounts, the two of you don’t even know if you like one another. Both of you would aggressively deny any such thing, even if the pair of you were absorbed in how one another feels rubbing your hands along clothes. That dig; that pull.

In the end, you turn, and you disappear into the trees, rushing to circle back to the front of the property where Buck will be waiting down the road. Your heart patters, your jewelry bouncing, and your purse full of your stolen quarry.

In the end, blue eyes watch you for a long moment.

And then Johnny backs into the shadows of night, and neither of you seemed to have ever existed at all.

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting, @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

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slut4sugu · 9 months

Text

𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓𝐒 𝐌𝐘 𝐓𝐘𝐏𝐄!

! 𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒. summary: what’s it like dating sugar daddy geto! ! 𓈒ㅤׂㅤ𐙚 ࣪ ⭒. description + warnings: age gap (reader is in her mid 20’s geto is in his early 30’s), mentions of phone sex, fingering, mirror sex, fluff, black!femreader, mentions of masturbation

one of the girls . back to masterlist

sugardaddy!geto who fell inlove with your beauty the moment he saw you drinking your problems away at a club, you were the prettiest angel he had ever seen. Yet your eyes lacked a shine in them, so he decided to cheer you up. Once he found out that your dead end job was the cause of your misery he gave you an opportunity to leave that life behind.

sugardaddy!geto who’s heart melted to see your eyes sparkle at the idea of being able to quit your degrading job as a waitress and have your own penthouse downtown. Though you then questioned why he would do this for you, “Because I couldn’t stand to see such a pretty thing like you drinking your life away. Now..what do you say to dinner at 8?”

sugardaddy!geto who picks you up from your apartment in a porche, stepping out of it to open the car door for you. “You look beautiful, I might just have to take you out every night.” You did put in your best to look the part for a high end restaurant, a emerald green dress hugged your figure complimenting your brown skin quite nicely. You did in a long time feel beautiful.A shy smile graced your lips as you got in the luxurious vehicle.

sugardaddy!geto who couldn’t stop looking at you all night, your gorgeous smile and curls were just too cute. The way you looked around the restaurant like a child seeing Christmas for the first time was worth every penny. Your smile was worth every penny.

“You know this could be a daily occurrence for you, a girl like you shouldn’t have to work so hard to have a glimpse at what life can offer.” Geto stated, you hated to agree with him but he was right, you did work hard wayyy to hard to not deserve a little spoiling from a hot rich guy. “What do you mean?” Gently taking your hand in his, his grey eyes looked into your brown ones with love and concern. “I mean I could take care all of your needs, in return you could spend some time with me.”

sugardaddy!geto who took you on your first shopping spree the day after your dinner date, who takes you to all the designer boutiques for outfits for your future dates & outings. “Darling don’t look at the price, if you want it get it.”

sugardaddy!geto who sees you as a goddess, as his angel, a slice of heaven that he gets to see every day

sugardaddy!geto who is starts to see you as more than his sugar baby after a while, the way you say his name starts to become addictive, the way you smile at him, how you hug him tightly after getting surprised with flowers.

sugardaddy!geto who damn near cums in his pants from seeing your pretty face twisted up in pleasure as he pumped two digits in and out of your eager cunt. “Keep looking in that mirror if you wanna cum.”

sugardaddy!geto who loves decorating your brown skin in hickeys and bites, so when you wake up in his bed and he’s not there you have a little reminder of the events from last night <33

sugardaddy!geto who jerks his cock to the sound of you moaning on his phone, your pretty voice whining and pleading for him to come home from his meeting and to fuck you into his mattress.

sugardaddy!geto who would give you the world on a platter if it meant seeing that sparkle in your eyes.

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cherryrainn · 8 months

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I hope you are well!

Can I request a Hazbin hotel Vox x f!reader oneshot/song fic ( lavender kiss by the licks ) thats just something about a late night spent alone with him? Thinking romance, sweetness, how he is behind closed doors, just overall comfort stuff!

I found your work on ao3 and loooved the meet me in the pale moonlight songfic, it was breathtaking. You actually inspired me to start my blog, your writing is so lovely 🖤

Excited to see what you write,

Signed, Koko

━━ ✧ 𝐥𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

─ ✩ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ; vox + reader

─ ✩ 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ; HII!!! THIS IS SO SWEET. I'M SO GLAD MY WRITING INSPIRES PEOPLE!! YOU ARE SO SWEET AND THANK YOU SOSO MUCH !!

─ ✩ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ; none

─ ✩ 𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 ; here

the night draped itself over the bustling city of hell, casting shadows that danced to the rhythm of distant sirens and echoing laughter. within the confines of a luxurious penthouse suite overlooking the chaotic skyline, vox, the charismatic and enigmatic demon of technology, found himself immersed in a world far removed from his usual grandiose schemes and relentless pursuits for power. tonight, he was not the manipulative man craving attention but a partner, a lover, basking in the comforting silence that only the late hours could offer.

what is a man?

you, his beloved, sat beside him, the soft glow from his flat-screen tv head casting an ethereal luminescence across the room. the shimmering lights revealed the intricacies of his features—the red sclera, light blue pupils, and that captivating mouth with sharp teeth that emitted a gentle, soothing light. the juxtaposition of his imposing 7-foot stature and the tenderness in his gaze, as he looked at you, was a sight to behold.

what is a woman?

vox had shed his dark blue tuxedo jacket. his fingers delicately traced patterns on your hand, sending a comforting chill down your spine. the air between you was thick with anticipation, a palpable tension that neither of you wanted to break.

what is a heart that loves inside?

"you ever think we'd get a night like this?" he asked, his voice dripping with a mix of mischief and genuine curiosity.

what makes a man

you leaned in closer, feeling the magnetic pull between you two. "in a place like this? never. but i'm glad it's with you."

fall for a woman?

a sly smirk crept across vox's face as he leaned back, pulling you into his lap. his light blue fingers traced lazy circles on your back, sending a shiver down your spine.

what makes a woman take his hand, baby?

"you and me both," he purred, his voice oozing confidence. "this place can be a dumpster fire, but with you, it's almost bearable."

in a wonderland

you chuckled, wrapping your arms around his neck. "only 'almost'?"

i'm in a wonderland

he laughed, a sound that echoed with a warmth you'd never heard from him before. "alright, alright, you got me. it's more than bearable; it's downright enjoyable."

take me back to this

the two of you lost yourselves in each other's company, the outside world becoming nothing more than a distant memory.

i just want you to want me

there were stolen kisses and tender touches, each one deepening the connection between you two.

i don't need any other hand to hold so near

as the night wore on, vox pulled you closer, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your heart race. "you know," he began, his voice softer than you'd ever heard, "i never thought i'd find someone who gets me like you do."

make me scream for this

you smiled, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. "and i never thought i'd find someone as...complex as you vox."

i just want you to want me

his grin widened, revealing those glowing teeth. "complex, huh? i'll take that as a compliment."

i need your lavender kiss

with a tender smile, he cupped your face, his glowing eyes locking onto yours as if trying to etch the memory of this night into his very being.

who is your man?

"you're somethin' else, you know that?" he whispered, his breath warm against your lips. "never thought i'd be caught in the feels like this."

who is my woman?

you chuckled, your heart fluttering at the unexpected vulnerability in his words. "feelings are a wild ride, vox."

where is my heart that loves inside?

vox leaned in, closing the distance between you with a gentle, lingering kiss. his lips were soft against yours, a testament to the tenderness that lurked beneath his charismatic exterior. as he pulled away, a mischievous glint returned to his eyes.

what makes a man

"maybe hell isn't so bad if it means more nights like this," he mused, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back.

fall for a woman?

the two of you shared another kiss, deeper this time, as if trying to savor every fleeting moment. vox's hand slipped into yours, fingers intertwining, grounding you in the reality of the connection you shared.

what makes her think she can take it back?

"who would've thought the big-shot vox could be such a softie?" you teased, earning a playful smirk from him.

in a wonderland

"hey, don't get used to it," vox replied, his tone light but affectionate. "i've got an image to uphold, you know."

i'm in a wonderland

the room filled with the quiet symphony of laughter and hushed conversations, punctuated by stolen kisses that spoke of a connection that transcended the chaos outside.

take me back to this

vox's lips found yours again and again, each kiss a promise, a vow, and a silent declaration of something deeper than words could convey.

i just want you to love me

as the sun continued its ascent, bathing the penthouse in a golden glow, vox held you close, his head resting against yours. "this," he murmured, "this is what makes it all worth it."

i don't need any other hand to hold so near

"you've got me, you know? all of me. and that's not something i give freely." said vox

make me scream for this

"i know," you whispered, your fingers tracing patterns on his chest. "and i promise to cherish every part of you, vox."

i just want you to want me

a contented sigh escaped vox's lips as he buried his face on the top of your head, planting soft kisses along your collarbone. the sensation sent tingles down your spine, each kiss a testament to the depth of his affection.

i need your

minutes, or perhaps hours, seemed to slip away as you and vox lost yourselves in each other's embrace. the world outside faded into insignificance as you reveled in the intimacy of the moment, each touch and whispered word deepening the bond that connected you.

oh, i need your

finally, as the sun reached its zenith, casting a radiant red glow that illuminated the entire penthouse, vox pulled away slightly, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. "promise me something," he murmured, his voice husky with emotion.

"anything," you replied, captivated by the vulnerability in his gaze.

"promise me you'll always be mine," he murmured, his voice laced with a trace of uncertainty and vulnerability. "promise me you'll always want me, that you'll never walk away." vox whispered, his fingers tracing your lips.

oh, i need your

you nodded "i promise," you vowed, sealing your promise with a tender kiss.

#VOX #hazbin hotel vox #hazbin hotel #hazbin #y/n #reader insert #x reader #ask #fluff #songfic #hazbin hotel x reader

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s3thwrit3sstuff · 8 months

Text

❝ you make me feel like I am clean again ❞

yandere!mob leaders x gn!reader | how you met | not proofread

warnings: graphic description of violence, guns, power imbalance (r! is part of the gang but they are a low-ranking member), yandere tendencies, mentions of drug dealings, very brief mention of r! getting felt up by someone in JH's section

masterlist ;

authors note: doing some oc writing feels lowkey daunting but I hope you guys enjoy it, I wasn't exactly sure how to format this aaaa but! I hope it isn't too confusing. I wanted to go more into depth but I suppose this serves as an introductory post to them??? IDK, I've never written this kinda thing before. * here is the better-quality post of the illustration * song on repeat: Love Song by Mariee Sioux

Kim Seo-Yun —

Seo-Yun would be unimpressed the first time she laid her eyes on you. It wouldn't be due to your looks, mannerisms, voice; she's just been hardwired that way.

Wants and needs are hard to convey when you're running one of the most dangerous businesses one could run. Drugs, gambling, skin, weapons — Seo-Yun's a busy woman.

Over time, however, she'll let her gaze linger on you.

Have you always looked so good in that colour? It really does bring out the shine in your eyes, and the suppleness of your lips. Seo-Yun's gaze is intimidating but seeing you squirm is all a part of your charm.

That's right. You're only dressing and acting this way to grab her attention, correct? Why else would she find it so hard to rip her sights from you?

Honestly, she shouldn't be making such frequent trips to the lower ring of her gang. This warehouse was meant to weed out the weakest of her guard dogs. It reeked of sweat and blood and cigarettes and cheap booze. The constant sounds of wrapped knuckles beating down on sandbags and bodies falling on thin mats gave her a headache.

Yet. She stands here on the second floor, gazing down at the sweaty men, a handful of women, and most importantly; you.

Favoritism comes slower than her interests. Seo-Yun will shove her feelings down until it bursts like a fucking volcano. All of a sudden, it's as if she's a hound that's caught the scent of their kill.

"What?" The man before you is wearing an expensive suit, luxury adorning him from the shimmering cuffs to the stitching that holds it together. "Madam Kim is requesting your transfer," he says curtly.

The transfer promotes you from doing grunt work near a polluted harbor to one of Seoul's most expensive penthouses in Gangnam.

It's jarring. She does not give you time to adjust. One moment you're setting down your duffel bag of things and the next you're in the back of a luxury car driving through Seoul's wealthiest district.

The guards (who are double your size and proudly show off their facial scars) push you toward the door of a seamstress. The very air you breathe smells like money.

When you see Seo-Yun, your eyes widen and you kneel to bow.

She muffles her amusement with a slow drag of her cigarette.

"They're very pretty, Madam Seo-Yun," a kindly old lady says from behind her. Her hands were bony and delicate, and the pin cushion she wore around her wrist looked heavy. Everything about her seemed deliberate and put together.

Despite that, despite the glamorous patterns she had on her and the jewelry hanging from her ears; Seo-Yun called for eyes on her with no more than a simple wave of her hand, flicking the ashes away from the cigarette.

"Aren't they? Such a gem."

Seo-Yun orders you to be a part of her security team. Dresses you in custom-made suits to blend in with the rest of the capable men and women. She gives you new weapons and arranges for you to have an apartment near hers. New fake IDs in store, local beat cops turning their gaze away as you smoke in alleyways with an obvious bulk under your jacket.

A gem she called you. And like a gem, she cannot keep her eyes off you.

Stares at you as if you were put on display. Relishes in the way you keep your gaze down, squaring your shoulders, straightening your posture — squirming under her gaze.

"Come inside," you freeze at her words. The other security guards stand stoically in the private entryway of her penthouse and she stands on the threshold of that obscenely large and heavy door.

"Madam?" you squeak out. She narrows her upturned eyes, like a goddess with no mood to be asked twice.

This is a nightly occurrence. It becomes a routine.

She invites you into her home, leaving the door open for you to close on your way in. She sits on the tufted leather sofa, and her grin is expectant.

You kneel. Then, you bring your palms to the floor and crawl towards her. Only stopping when your chin is on her knee and you bring your eyes to meet hers.

"Sweet thing," she'll coo. Her palm is soft and cared for, but there is the slightest bit of callousness here and there. That roughness that comes with holding a gun to someone's head.

The first time she had told you to kneel, you'd been so confused you stood there like a statue. Seo-Yun gives you a minute to let it click, and she tilts her head as you jerkily kneel on her expensive floors.

"Crawl to me."

"Sweet darling," she continues. Your eyes flutter close as she traces your cheekbones with her thumb. "So good for me, so obedient, aren't you?"

How could you not be?

In the weeks you'd been with her, your life took such a drastic turn. Well-fed, well-cared for, and pampered in little but big ways. You were the runt of the litter, a stray, she told you.

She had seen you, she said. She had seen your potential, your drive, your passion.

"I was...I just, I just needed the money, Madam," you sheepishly admit that first night, balancing your chin on her knee.

Who would choose to become the grunt of a dangerous gang? Miniscule soldiers with dreams of dying a movie-worthy death, of brotherly bonds between hardened criminals — Please. You were at the end of your rope, this was the only option before the noose.

"Money is life," Seo-Yun strokes over your cheeks. "You fought to live, climbed through the muddy filth of the pier, and here you are. In my lap."

"I see you, (Y/N)."

"Are you tired?" the shake of your head earns a firm squeeze on your jaw. Your eyes flutter open so she grins sweetly.

"Bathe with me." She lifts your chin and you stand, taking her into your arms as she tugs on the shoulder gun strap you wore, leading you along like a leash. A security guard's job does not include such tasks. You're aware. But how could you say no to the most powerful woman in Seoul?

Your relationship starts off with a clear dynamic. You belong to Seo-Yun, no ifs or buts. No matter how dubious your feelings towards her are, you cannot deny there is such a lovely prospect of being a powerful person's beloved.

Or gem. Or pet. Or...whatever it is Seo-Yun considers you as.

All you know is you are hers and she expects nothing but loyalty and excellence from you. She dresses you in the best, feeds you the best foods, your mattress is hers and therefore it is fit for a Queen.

How spoiled are you, (Y/N)?

So spoiled you do not even realise the pretty cage she's put around you. Don't realise that those pearly white gates are her own teeth as she closes her jaws; too distracted by the gifts, the love, she showers you in.

Exactly how she wants you to be. Pliant, demure, and hers.

So what if your old friends suddenly never contact you again? Or your financial dependence has suddenly been transferred to her? If you never hold a gun in your hands ever again.

"Crawl to me, baby."

And you do. And she grins as she holds your face.

"Good pet."

Kim Jeong-Hyun —

Jeong-Hyun is a peculiar man. Some would argue he's barely a man; others would chime that he's barely human. The sight of the deep scars on his body; the mutilated side of his face. His left ear was chewed off, his left eye cloudy, and a good chunk of his lips ripped off to reveal gums and teeth.

Even if he wasn't a monster; he looked it. That was enough to set people on edge. Seemingly unaware of how he plants the fear of God within people, Jeong-Hyun stares at everyone with a dark gaze that could make the devil shiver.

Unlike his older sister, who hides her emotions until they spill over the edge, he makes his interest known from the beginning.

His good eye, lighter than any brown you've ever seen; a molten hazel that flashes gold in sunlight, devours you as he stands before you.

Although Madam Seo-Yun attends the funerals of her fallen men, she does not linger for the drinking and eating. Jeong-Hyun does.

You'd excused yourself from your circle, the drinks making your body warm enough to endure the cold night air as you light up a cigarette.

The clicking of nails on the brick ground forces you to look at the whimpering dog. Mangy, fur matted, and with its stubby legs like rubber as it paws at your shoe. It was someone's pet, left on the streets. Judging from the overgrown fur, it's been a while since someone's given it any kindness.

Jeong-Hyun had just walked out for a breather (he enjoys spending time with his men, but the noises and the scent of booze could get overwhelming), a bag of meat in hand as he set his sights on feeding the local strays.

But then he sees you crouched by an alleyway, pouring some cheap kibble you bought from a nearby convenience store onto some newspaper. Jeong-Hyun's footsteps are ghostlike, you don't even notice he's there until you feel his breath whisper along your ear and when you spin he's statue-like.

"B — Boss!" He's not the boss — he's just her brother. He still outranked you (by a whole league) so, he doesn't correct you as you bow your head so far down it's between your knees.

He looks silly crouched down in his two-piece suit. You're dressed formally, though the two of you were in different financial brackets. Jeong-Hyun does not speak. The pinkish scar that runs across his neck peeks from the collar of his button-up. It has your toes curling just imagining what had caused it.

He nudges the plastic bag your way, and you cautiously take it from him. To your surprise, he squishes his eyes into crescent moons, and despite his scarred cheek lifting from behind the black surgical mask he wore he looked so...innocent.

The rounded shape of his eyes, the deep crease of his eyelid, and his brows - it all makes him look boyish.

You turn your attention to the strips of expensive beef he had gotten, feeding the poor puppy in silence.

Jeong-Hyun's interest begins with him accompanying your crew as you were tasked to make a show of a traitor. He shoves the blade your way, hilt tilted your way as he connects his gaze with you.

The leader of your crew informs him you are new. He does not even pretend to hear him.

You took the blade, the forged metal heavier than you expected it to be but not impossibly so. It seemed as though it was his favorite, a little longer than a dagger but still small enough to hide under your clothes. Weighing it on your palm, you test the balance of it before gripping it tightly and Jeong-Hyun is entranced by the casual dominance you have over it.

The man before you, on his knees with his cut lip hanging heavily and his eyes so bruised you wonder how he can still see you enough to squeak in fear; he shivers and bows desperately.

"How do you want him, boss?" You glance at him, the grip on the blade strong and confident. He narrows his eyes then closes his eyes, jerking his chin forward.

' However you see fit. '

Jeong-Hyun falls in love with your violence.

Asking for you, always. Giving you food to bring back, giving you new knives and even transferring you to his personal squad of men and women. He'd even invited you into his home. Which, apparently, was not unusual but no one had ever had the pleasure of being able to see the pack of dogs he had.

He starts hanging around you more. His favoritism is hard to mask and it causes you more issues than you'd like to admit.

"You're his little bitch now, huh?" or "His cock tastes good, (Y/N)?"

But who can say no when their boss tells them they want you to follow him around, be his shadow, do nothing more than observe boring meetings and itching for the usual vulgarity of mobsters while you're stood by the wall or behind him?

The madam is not impressed by you. Whenever she speaks to her brother, she will cast a glance filled with nothing more than mild bemusement and disgust.

"Hey, boss," he tilts his head in your direction. You're sat in a barbeque restaurant, and he's watching you intently as you flip the meat, licking his exposed teeth with an almost canine-like attribute.

"...Can I ask you a question?" Jeong-Hyun nods, tearing his eyes away to now look at you. They're almost golden, you think to yourself, the colour of his eyes is so bright.

"Why do you favour me?"

Jeong-Hyung, you come to find out, does not speak. The scar you see peeking from his high collars was apparently a wound that had gone so deep, it took the ability for him to speak comfortably. So Jeong-Hyun signs; "What does that mean?"

"Favour?" You ask and he nods.

"Well, it means, why do you...like me...?"

Jeong-Hyung blinks for a few seconds then tells you to flip the meat. The conversation seemingly ends. That is until you find yourself in his home and he has invited you to his basement.

The dogs bark from behind the doggy gate, a hallway away feeling like a stretch of land as their noises echo. In the basement, you find yourself surrounded by crusted blood and metal. He lifts a dagger and shows it to you. It takes a moment for you to recognize it, it's been weeks since you've held it, but then your brows furrow.

"You kill good. Like me, I like that. I like you," he signs while you hold the dagger. "You like me?" He nods, pulling his black mask away from his face, and grins. It's surreal to see, not exactly grotesque but an unusual sight.

"I like you," he signs.

When his enthusiasm is met with confusion, Jeong-Hyun's face contorts into worry.

He takes the dagger from your hand, places it down, then holds your hands in his. He's tall, towering easily over you as he brings your knuckles to his lips.

He has essentially muted himself. Focusing his strength on keeping your hands hostage as he walks forward until your back meets the smoothed limewash walls of his basement.

"Boss? I'm flattered, but this is a lot to take in....!"

His cloudy eye is in a perpetual squint, healed scars tugging on the skin so it looks almost uncomfortable stretched. They have so much sadness that you feel guilt sprout in you.

'Love me,' they say, 'Love me, love me, lovemelovemelovemelovemelovemeloveme'

Your relationship is dubious. The jeers from your comrades make you feel more flustered than before and Jeong-Hyun is not shy about his affections.

He holds your hands in meetings and traces the shapes of your fingers and joints.

When a snake requires a beheading, Jeong-Hyun takes off your jacket for you and hands you a weapon of his choice. The men who snicker at the sight? Jeong-Hyun is not fond of guns but he so does love it when his sister presses her Beretta to the back of their necks and makes them gasp and sputter.

Madam Seo-Yun may not like you but you matter too much to her little brother for her to allow their insubordinate to make fun of you.

Jeong-Hyun is like a touch-starved puppy. Despite his towering size, he crumbles under your touch, your gaze.

"My brother, he is naive to relationships," Seo-Yun informs you during a lunch meeting. "I noticed, Madam," you shrink under her gaze. How is it she has the same shade of eyes and hers are so, so, so cold?

"But he likes you, favours you I think is the word he used. He has never liked someone before. Not as strongly as this. I suppose I should advise you to take some caution."

"My brother's love comes with a storm of violence. It runs in the family, I'm afraid. Please, don't be frightened by his displays."

You didn't quite understand what she meant.

He'd never been violent to you. You had witnessed him kill before, torture, maim — it was not an unusual sight in your line of work.

You didn't understand until you saw it.

Another funeral, more drinks, more meat. Jeong-Hyun has you beside him, eagerly awaiting your metal chopsticks to place more grilled beef onto his plate.

No one laughs at the sight anymore, they treat you as an extension of Jeong-Hyun which, considering how he monopolies your time, you might as well be. It's rare to see you without him.

But as you got up to wash your hands — someone had spilled their drinks and your hand became sticky — an inebriated man had pressed himself against you.

"You must be a good lay if *hic* Jeong-Hyun-ssi keeps you around, riiight? C'mon, just a quickie, c'mon," "Fuck! Get away from me!"

Jeong-Hyun's hand grabs the back of the man's head, rears it backward, and slams it right into the sink. It shatters, the man yells, people around you scream; but Jeong-Hyun tightens his grip, rears his hand back, and slams him down again.

By the end of that public fiasco, the man's head was obliterated so badly, his face was no longer there. Just shredded skin, muscle, and shattered bone and brain matter.

Madam Seo-Yun's gaze on you is heavy in the car. Jeong-Hyun lumbers in, his hand covered with tissues and you immediately pull the bloody fist to your lap. Approval shines in her eyes as you apply pressure and ask if it hurts.

Well, you couldn't say she didn't warn you now, could you?

#s3thwrit3sstuff #reader insert #gn reader #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere x y/n #yandere #yandere oc #yandere imagines #female yandere #male yandere

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sophrosynesworld · 3 months

Text

With all my love, pt 5

Am I crazy? Seriously, am I the kind of person who stalks their ex-boyfriend on Twitter, spots a mutual friend in the background of a drunk selfie, then calls that friend to get the address so I can show up and kill my ex?

I press the elevator button, heading up to the penthouse. As the elevator speeds past the lower floors, my heart pounds in my chest. Mumbles leave my mouth as I hold back my nausea, feeling like I’m going to barf in this plant. What luxury apartment complex has a plant in the elevator?

Why didn’t I come up with a plan sooner? The adrenaline that fueled my initial anger is already beginning to dwindle. I let out a soft sigh, closing my eyes for a moment to concentrate. I can’t let him do this to me anymore. I'm exhausted by the mind games, the constant psychological warfare.

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open to reveal a lavish hallway. I take a deep breath, feeling a flutter of nerves. I haven't been to Todoroki’s apartment before, which makes this whole situation even more nerve-racking. The empty hallway is intimidating, each step I take echoing softly. Despite the knots in my stomach, I know I can't turn back now. This is my only chance to reclaim my sense of self, to finally break free from the cycle of manipulation and pain.

I open the front door and slip off my outside shoes, replacing them with an appropriate indoor pair from my bag. The living room is full with a combination of heroes and groupies, their faces illuminated by the shifting colors of several strobe lights. The air is thick with the mingled scents of perfume, sweat, and the unmistakable tang of spilled beer.

The music vibrates the floor below me, suddenly feeling bad for his downstairs neighbors. A steady beat reverberates through my chest as I watch the crowd for a moment, trying to spot a familiar face. Bodies grind in sync on the dance floor, a group is gathered near the kitchen, their conversations unheard thanks to the music. On the far side of the room, an old classmate is standing next to the makeshift bar, mixing drinks with practiced ease.

“Can you make me a drink Sero?” my voice surprises him clearly as he jumps and knocks a few plastic cups over, causing them to spill out over the floor. The much taller man turns around with a drunken smile spreading across his face, liquor lingers on his breath as he picks me up and spins me around in a circle.

“I didn’t know they let you outside anymore” Sero laughed as he placed me back down onto the floor. His tape quickly extending out towards several bottles, helping him create some drink concoction. An aquamarine beverage is extended out to me as I hear a high pitched squeal in my ear.

Mina latched onto me before I can process what’s happening. Her combined “oh my gods” and complaints about my outfit are tossed in between each other like an overstuffed compliment sandwich.

“I’m excited to see you too Mimi.” I offer her a small hug back as I question Sero.

“What is this?”

“Plus Ultra Punch.”

“Of course it is.” my eyes roll as I down my drink. Mina squeezing my shoulders excitedly while Sero quickly made another.

“Be careful, these are strong.” He warns before turning around to help another nonpaying client.

I sip my drink, the alcohol burning a fiery path down my throat. The potent mix of liquor and fruitiness lingers on my tongue. As I savor the sensation, I glance over at Mina, who’s excitedly tapping away on her phone, her face illuminated by the screen's glow.

"Do you know where Bakugou is?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

She looks up, concern flashing in her eyes. "Do you think that’s a good idea?" she counters, her hand gripping my jacket. Her gaze darts nervously around the room, scanning the crowd.

"Who is he with?" My voice wavers slightly, a defeated breath escaping my lungs. I brace myself for the answer. Mina sighs, rolling her eyes at my stupidity before pointing towards the balcony.

"She's just some groupie. They just met tonight. I—" Her voice fades into music as I weave my way through the dance floor. Liquid courage propels me forward until I reach the balcony door, my hand poised to turn the knob.

Before I can open it, a strong hand catches mine. I turn to see Kirishima, his expression serious as he gently but firmly pulls me closer to his chest. His eyes, usually so warm, are full of concern.

"You don't want to do this," he says, his voice low and pleading.

"Do what, Eijiro?" I snap, frustration bubbling to the surface.

"You don't want to see him tonight," he insists, his grip tightening slightly.

"What are you talking about? You're the one who begged me to see him in the first place. So, surprise." I wave my hands in a mock cheer, but his expression remains stern. Confusion must be written all over my face.

"He's drunk.” Kirishima explains, his voice edged with frustration.

Correction: he's being a horndog.

"I already know that," I respond, trying to keep my cool.

"No. He's first-semester drunk.”

Correction: He’s being a horndog.

Correction: He's being a mean lil fucker.

The weight of his words sinks in, a sharp reminder of a side of Bakugou I've rarely seen. Usually, alcohol makes him overly affectionate, but when he's in a bad place, everyone allows him to act like an absolute jerk.

"Don't make me beg, Eijiro. I need to do this. I can't go home now," I plead, my voice cracking with desperation. My eyes lock onto his.

Eijiro hesitates, scanning the room again before reluctantly releasing me. "Do you want me to go with you?" he offers, his voice softening with concern.

"Katsuki would never hurt me. My feelings? All the time. But I'm not in any danger with him." my pitch matches his as I offer a small smile.

I step back, turning towards the door. Kirishima's eyes follow me as I open it and step onto the balcony. The humid night air wraps around me, heavy and thick.

I can hear her giggle again, a sound that slices through me like a knife. I step over to the right-hand side, drawn by the flirtatious sounds. As I move closer, the scene comes into focus: the two of them sitting by the pool, her legs draped over his as she leans back, laughing.

The sight of them together feels like a betrayal, a sharp twist of the knife already lodged in my heart. Each giggle, each touch, is a reminder of how easily he disregards my feelings, of how little I seem to matter to him. The pain is overwhelming, a tidal wave of hurt and anger.

"Katsuki Bakugou!" I bark, my voice slicing through the air. His head snaps in my direction, eyes wide and frantic like a deer caught in headlights. For a moment, he stiffens, standing unsteadily by the pool's edge as if he’s wondering if his drunken mind is playing tricks on him.

In his panic to stand, he accidentally shoves the poor woman beside him into the pool. Her screams are piercing for a brief moment before being abruptly silenced as she plunges underwater. Katsuki pays her no mind, his focus solely on me as he stomps over with a fury that radiates off him in waves. Her distressed whines are lost in the chaos of the moment, falling on deaf ears as he seizes my arm with a grip that is both desperate and furious.

His eyes, a mix of shock and confusion, rake over me as if he's searching for some sign of authenticity, as if I’m someone else using a transformation quirk. His breath comes in short, ragged bursts, his fingers digging into my skin as if I’m going to disappear again.

"Katsuki, let go," I manage to whisper, my voice trembling. His gaze locks onto mine, and for a moment, I see a flicker of vulnerability behind his anger.

The night air feels thicker, almost suffocating, as we stand there, locked in a silent struggle. The woman's splashes and gasps barely register in our shared turmoil. Katsuki's grip tightens, his eyes searching mine for answers that I'm not sure I can give. The intensity of his gaze is overwhelming, a look that leaves me feeling exposed and raw.

Before I can say anything, his lips crash onto mine, rough and urgent, his hands gliding over my exposed skin as slides his palms to both sides of my face. The intensity of his kiss takes my breath away, and I instinctively reach for his wrists, trying to pull away.

“Bakugou, I—” He cuts me off again, his lips capturing mine more forcefully. His tongue flicks across my lower lip, demanding entry. I deny his request, trying to pull away once more.

“You’re such a brat. Do you know that?” His voice is low, a dangerous rumble.

“Do you know how absolutely insane you make me? You have completely ruined me, woman.” His hands run down my spine and reach for the small of my back, pulling our bodies impossibly close. His soft lips leave a trail of peppery kisses all over my neck and face, each one sending shivers down my spine.

“I mean, fuck.” He pulls away, his eyes dark and intense. “I can’t think straight. When I’m on a mission, I’m wondering if you’re watching me on TV. When I’m on patrol, I stick to routes with the fastest response time to your office.” His hands drop from my face, the initial shock wearing off, allowing his real emotions to surface. His voice rises with every word, each syllable dripping with raw emotion. His hands pull away from my body.

“You left me. You didn’t call, you didn’t text. You left me some shitty note on the bed and thought I wouldn’t notice your disappearance? Well, I did!”

My hands reach out to him, but he pushes them away, almost scoffing at the gesture. He steps back, creating a wider gap between us.

“I’m the one who left? You’re the one that’s been cheating on me! You don’t get to make me feel sorry for your dumb ass and then fuck someone else, dickhead!” My voice trembles with a mixture of hurt and anger.

His eyes widen, nostrils flaring as he stretches his arms wide, his voice booming for anyone to hear.

“Are you serious?” he paces back and forth, his agitation clear. “I would never disrespect you like that. I can’t even believe you would think that.”

I scoff, crossing my arms defensively. “Coming home late, pulling away from me, not showing up for our planned date nights and dinners, having to stay at the office until ungodly hours, or maybe worst of all, going MIA for days at a time and leaving me to worry you’re dead.”

The words hang between us, heavy and accusatory, each one a dagger in the already bleeding wounds of our relationship.

Bakugou pulls out his phone, his fingers angrily slamming onto the touchscreen with each tap. He brings it up to his ear, his voice a low, furious whisper as he speaks to someone on the other end. The conversation is brief and tense, ending abruptly as he hangs up and shoves the phone back into his pocket.

Without a moment's hesitation, he stomps up to me, his eyes blazing with determination. He reaches for my hand, yanking me toward him with a force that takes my breath away. His grip is firm as he moves backward toward the door, dragging me along despite my attempts to plant my feet and resist.

"Katsuki, stop!" I plead, my voice wavering, but he pays no attention to my words. His expression is set in stone, his jaw clenched tightly.

Ignoring my protests, he leans down. With surprising ease, lifts me off the ground, throwing me over his shoulder. The world tilts as I find myself staring at the ground, my hands pounding against his back in a futile attempt to make him release me.

“Put me down, Katsuki!” I shout, my voice echoing through the night air. But the drunken man before me is beyond reason, his focus solely on getting us out of there.

As we move through the party, the atmosphere shifts. Conversations falter and heads turn to watch the spectacle unfolding before them. Murmurs ripple through the crowd, a mix of confusion and curiosity. People part instinctively, creating a pathway as Bakugou strides purposefully toward the exit, carrying me over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

"What the hell, Bakugou?" someone calls out, but he doesn't respond. His steps remain steady, his hand resting on the top of my ass. I catch glimpses of familiar faces, their expressions a blend of shock and concern, but no one dares to intervene.

The pulsating music and flashing lights of the party become a distant background noise as we finally make it outside. Bakugou's pace quickens as he heads toward the parking lot, and there, waiting under a streetlamp, is Izuku's car.

Bakugou finally sets me down, his grip momentarily loosening as he fumbles for his phone again. I take a deep breath, my heart still racing from the chaotic journey through the party. The car's headlights flicker to life, illuminating the scene as Izuku steps out, his face a mask of concern and confusion.

"What's going on?" Izuku asks, his eyes darting between the two of us.

Before I can answer, Bakugou cuts in, his voice still laced with anger and urgency. "Just get us out of here, Deku. Now."

#bakugou katsuki #katsuki bakugo #mha #mha x reader #my hero academia #bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugou #mha bakugou #sero hanta #mina ashido

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steveslevis · 9 months

Text

delicate - chapter two

is it chill that you're in my head?

pairing: steve harrington x reader

chapter contents: not a lot happening in this one, just the two of them being awkward

wc: 3.6k

a/n: hope you guys enjoy!!! sorry it took so long, hopefully ch3 won't take me as long

Everything that comes after your so-called interview at Ralph’s happens in what seems like a matter of seconds. Before you know it, you’re standing on Fifth avenue with Eddie the next day, your two large suitcases, one duffle bag and backpack being the only things you needed to tow across the city.

Eddie had been the opposite of excited for you, in all honesty. He told you damn near a thousand times over a span of 24 hours that you should just move in with him and Alexander, and that you should try to negotiate with him about still working for him until you can save for your own place. Much to his dismay, you ignored your best friend’s concerns, shaking your head with confidence every time he tried to ask if you would stay. You had a good feeling about this, the voice in the back of your head telling you to go for it, that it would be a good growth opportunity, that you would never heal by spending your time rotting on Eddie’s couch.

So that’s how you ended up here, walking into one of the most expensive luxury housing buildings in the entire city with your weary best friend in tow. The two of you had made the mile and a half long trek across the city instead of using one of the Harrington family’s chauffeurs – you had insisted to Steve that it wasn’t necessary for the little amount of belongings that you had.

“Holy shit,” you hear Eddie mumble behind you while you push open the heavy glass door and walk into the lobby.

The lobby is grand, with white marble floors, sleek black walls, gold accents, and arguably the biggest crystal chandelier you’ve ever seen hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the room. There’s two gray leather couches sitting in front of a modern fireplace on one side, while a black granite front desk is on the other, with a young, blonde woman standing behind it.

“Hi there!” The woman calls to you from behind the desk, bearing the fakest smile you’ve ever seen as she eyes you and Eddie up and down, likely judging how out of place the two of you look in such a luxurious area, “can I help you two?”

“Yeah, we’re looking for the Harrington residence,” you say while approaching the desk with an equally fake smile plastered on your face, “are we in the right place?”

The woman, whose name is Carolyn according to her nametag, immediately turns off the fake niceties once you say who you’re looking for. The fake smile falters for a moment and you see her furrow her brow while looking you over once again. She looks down to the desk in front of her for a moment, reaching for an envelope that’s off to the side.

“You must be the new nanny,” she says, and you almost swear you hear a hint of jealousy in her voice as she speaks.

“Yes, that’s me.” you say with a small chuckle to yourself, raising your brow at her when she nearly frowns at your response.

Her lips fall into a thin line at that, her hand coming up from behind the counter to shove the envelope onto the granite in front of you.

“Here’s the access card and key to the apartment,” she says to you as you grab the envelope, inside is a glimmering golden card and a silver key that’s attached to a small tag with your name on it, “you have to scan the card in the elevator to get to the top floor, then use the key to open the door. Don’t lose them, or you’ll have to pay for them.”

She turns back to the computer in front of her without a word as you nod. You turn to Eddie once she does, exchanging a confused look before making your way towards the elevator on the other end of the lobby. You scan the key card and the elevator’s doors automatically close as the circular button with a large “P” at the top of the pad lighting up as it begins its ascent.

“Jesus, the fucking penthouse?” Eddie scoffs under his breath in disbelief, shifting your duffle bag on his shoulder.

It only takes a minute for the elevator to reach the top floor, the door of the elevator sliding open to reveal a short hallway with only one door at the end. The two of you step out and make your way over to the large front door, you look over to Eddie once you stand in front of it. The look on your face is filled with nervousness and excitement, but mainly nervousness.

“Should I knock?” you question, staring down at your key.

“You have a key for a reason, don’t you?” he quips, raising an eyebrow at you.

You shoot him a quick glare and sigh, flipping the key in your fingers a few times as you try to compose yourself. Eventually you reach for the door, sliding the key into the lock to open it. The door swings open and you’re met with arguably the nicest apartment – penthouse, rather – that you’ve stepped foot in while living in the city.

It’s much more cozy and less grandiose than you had expected, a stark contrast from the marble lined, golden and glittering lobby you had just entered from. You step into the living room when you first walk in, a large olive green couch and two matching chairs face a fireplace on the far wall, a comically large TV hanging above it. Everything is clean and definitely luxurious, but also feels lived-in, much more welcoming and warm than the rest of the complex.

The kitchen is to the left through a wide archway, but you don't have time to explore, as your thoughts are interrupted by Steve bounding into view from the kitchen. There’s a welcoming smile on his face as he steps into the living room, wiping his hands with a kitchen towel before tossing it over his shoulder to free his hands. He’s wearing a pair of slacks and a navy button down. His hair is a little more disheveled than it was last time the two of you met, but still looked perfectly put together somehow. You could tell that he had recently gotten done with work for the day, partially from the fact that he had two buttons undone on his shirt, and partially from the air of remnant stress that he was carrying.

“Welcome! Please, come on in.” Steve says with a smile as he watches Eddie close the door behind him. “Thank you for coming on such short notice, again. I really appreciate you starting so soon.”

“It’s no problem, I’m glad to help.” you say, shifting the backpack on your shoulders.

Steve extends a hand to Eddie to introduce himself, and Eddie gives him a reserved introduction in return, still hesitant about everything as he scans the penthouse.

Steve looks between you and Eddie once more, eyeing the four bags between the two of you before asking, “Is this everything you had to bring up, or is there still more downstairs?”

“Yeah, this is it, actually.” you laugh, knowing the amount of belongings you had was quite underwhelming, “that’s why I said we could just make the hike with the bags instead of taking one of your cars.”

“Oh, it would’ve been no problem either way.” he says while shaking his head, reaching for the suitcase that was by your side, “C’mon, I’ll show you to your room.”

Steve guides the two of you to a room off to the right on the first floor, explaining that the people who owned the penthouse before him had used it as a place for their in-laws to stay. He opened the door to the room, letting you and Eddie walk in before him. The bedroom was much nicer than you had expected in all honesty, with a queen-sized bed in the middle adorned in obviously expensive cream-colored linens, a sitting area equipped with a stocked bookshelf (perks of being employed by the CEO of a famous publishing company), and a desk for you to work on school during your time off. There was an en-suite bathroom as well, which looked larger than the entire living room of your previous shared apartment.

“Wow, this is–this is so amazing.” you gasp, looking over to Steve gratefully. “I wasn’t expecting anything this nice, to be honest.”

“Gotta make sure you’re comfortable so you stick around,” he says with a wink, which instantly sends your stomach into a fit of butterflies. “Go ahead and get settled in, I’m gonna go check on Amelia and the food.”

Before you could thank him, Steve was through the door and back in the nearby kitchen. You could tell why he needed your help, his mind worked at a thousand miles a minute, like he always had something that he needed to be doing.

“You still sure about all this?” Eddie implores, breaking you from your thoughts.

You look over to your best friend to see a face contorted with genuine concern and hesitancy, unsure of if he should leave you here alone or if he should tote you out over his shoulder regardless of your wishes.

“I am one hundred percent sure, Eds.” you assure him with a soft smile, pulling him into a hug.

Eddie wraps his arms around your shoulders with a sigh, finally giving up his fight on your decisions. He knew you were too stubborn to listen to him and deep down he could tell that Steve meant well, but he was just so unsure.

“I just want you to be safe.” he says finally, resting his chin atop your head.

“And I will be,” you state confidently, pulling back to look up at him. “This place might be, like, one of the safest places to live in the city. And besides, anywhere is safer than where I was.”

“You mean on my couch?” Eddie says, feigning an insulted look as he speaks. He knew you were talking about living with Luke, but he also knew you didn’t want to talk about him.

“I appreciate everything you do for me, Eds, but your couch is the second to last place I would like to sleep tonight.” you say with a teasing smile, watching as he rolls his eyes playfully.

“Alright, alright, but don’t come crying to me when sexy Mr. CEO Harrington turns out to be crazy like I said,” he replies, and you shoot him a glare. “What? There’s gotta be something wrong with him, he’s too hot and too perfect on paper to be normal.”

“I think you gotta stop obsessing over my ‘hot’ boss before you get me fired before my first day has even started,” you laugh, shoving his shoulder after using air quotes when saying hot – you didn’t think Steve was hot at all, right?

“Okay, fine I’ll stop tormenting you.” he chuckles, “as long as you promise not to fall in love with him or some shit like that.”

You immediately laugh out loud at the thought, shaking your head immediately. “That’s not gonna happen, Eds. He’s my employer and I’m only here to take care of his daughter. Besides, I’ll probably barely see him since he’ll be working all the time.”

Eddie gives you an incredulous look before pulling you in for another quick hug.

“Please, just call me if there’s anything you need and I can be here to get you, okay?” he says and you nod.

The two of you walk out of the bedroom shortly after, saying your goodbyes at the door with one last hug (that Eddie almost doesn’t let go in) before you make your way to the kitchen, where you know Steve is.

Unsurprisingly, the kitchen is just as nice as the rest of the penthouse that you’ve seen, but is currently in a bit of a state of disarray. Steve is standing next to the stove, and he’s serving what looks to be a pasta dish onto plates on the counter. Amelia is sitting at the long, dark dining table on the other side of the room. She’s zeroed in on two dolls in front of her, mumbling a conversation between the two of them to herself.

“Food’s done, sweetheart.” Steve called out to his daughter, grabbing a pink plate from the pile, presumably for her. “Why don’t you put your dolls up on the counter while we eat so they don’t get dirty, okay?”

The little girl nods, grabbing her things from the table to put them up, clearly excited for the dinner her dad had prepared, “want butter on my bread, please Daddy.” she requests, a smile on her face when she spots the pink plate atop the counter.

“I’ll get you some once I sit down, love.” he replies, smoothing down his daughter’s hair when she comes to stand next to him.

There was something so sweet and so domestic about the situation unfolding in front of you, a father and daughter busy in their own little worlds, but not too busy to share a kind interaction.

“Just in time, I was just gonna come see if you guys were hungry.” Steve says, peering over his shoulder to meet your eyes when you take another step into the room.

“Oh, sure!” you reply, “it’s just me though. I’m sorry to disappoint, but Eddie left just a second ago.”

Steve laughs in response, shaking his head at your words. He quickly serves up some penne alla vodka, extending the plate and some silverware to you once he does. You follow him to the table as he carries his and Amelia’s plates, setting one in front of his excited daughter, who almost immediately digs in.

“Well, I’m sad your boyfriend couldn’t stay for dinner, but it was very kind of him to help you move over on such short notice and be so understanding of the situation.” Steve says once you both settle at the table.

You had just taken your first bite of food when Steve started to speak, and the suggestion of Eddie being your boyfriend nearly makes you choke on the pasta. A small laugh escapes your lips as you play off your near-death experience with a cough, shaking your head at the thought.

“Are you alright?” Steve questions, setting his own fork down as he watches you carefully, making sure you’re not actually choking.

“Yes! S–sorry, I’m fine!” you stammer quickly, shaking your head, “I just–Sorry, I thought that was funny. Eddie isn’t my boyfriend.” you reply with a nervous smile.

“Oh?” Steve retorts, raising an eyebrow at you.

“He’s just my best friend, I–I was actually sleeping on him and his boyfriend’s couch for a few days so he just wanted to make sure where I was going to be living was safer than that.” you say, cheeks flushing red at the admission of couch surfing less than 24 hours prior to ending up in this penthouse, of all places.

“Sleeping on his couch?” he implores, “I thought you said you lived in a small studio in Yorkville?”

“I did, with my ex. That is where I was but we–well, we had a nasty breakup a few weeks back so that’s how I ended up on Eddie’s couch. It all happened so fast that I keep forgetting I don’t live there anymore –” you blurt out, stopping yourself when you realize how much you’re sharing with this man you barely know. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be telling you all this, you’re my boss for God’s sake, I am so sorry, Steve.”

“Hey, no, no, you’re fine!” he replies quickly, shooting you a reassuring smile. “I’m, uh, I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

You give him a small, sad smile in return, choosing to focus your gaze on the food in front of you so you don’t embarrass yourself any more than you already have.

“I know it probably doesn’t mean a lot coming from me since I don’t know what happened, but I’m sure that you didn’t deserve to be the one left on your best friend’s couch without a place to live.” Steve was rambling now, “and I’m sorry for assuming that Eddie was your boyfriend, I just didn’t think it was possible for someone like you to be single.”

There was an awkward beat of silence after Steve finished his nervous ramble, leaving you with a million thoughts that you couldn’t process in the moment, all being ones that made your stomach flutter. You didn’t really have time to process any of it though, as your thoughts were interrupted by Amelia tugging on her dad’s sleeve.

“Where my butter bread?” she questions, giving her dad a very stern look, clearly impatient from not getting her bread with the meal.

Steve opens his mouth to retort, but you’re up from the table and grabbing the plate with baguette slices and a pad of butter Steve had forgotten on the counter next to the pot of pasta. You give the little girl a smile, swiping some butter on one of the slices before reaching across the table to hand it to her. She grabs the bread and hastily takes a large bite, giggling to herself in satisfaction.

“What do you say?” Steve says to her, giving her a knowing look.

“Tank you,” she says to you, mouth full of bread as she grins over at you.

The once awkward moment quickly resolved after Amelia’s interruption, and dinner went by smoothly after that. You discussed what you would need to do to help Amelia throughout the day and night, and what days Steve would be around to help out. He let you know that you wouldn’t have to cook dinner, as he insisted on sitting down with her almost every evening for the meal and making it on his own. After dinner, you insisted on helping Steve clean up, but he insisted against it, that he would finish up. Instead, you opted to get Amelia ready for bed, getting her showered and cleaned up before reading her one of the dozens of children’s books that she had littered around her bedroom.

It was around 9 by the time you finished getting her to bed, leaving her room with the bedroom door cracked slightly. Both her and Steve’s bedrooms were upstairs, along with Steve’s office that he used to work from home on occasion. You passed the office, noticing a small light flooding from the doorway as you did. Before you could walk down the stairs, you heard a voice from inside the office call for you.

Steve was sitting in the dimly lit room, at the large oak desk that sat in the middle of the room. He looked up from his computer when you came in, there was a tired look on his face that changed when he locked eyes with you. Thin rimmed glasses sat on his face that you hadn’t seen before, and he was freshly showered, his hair still drying and the collar of his gray t-shirt was slightly damp. He looked exhausted, but still managed to look extremely attractive and that made you want to crawl into his lap and – no, stop it. Your mind was wandering, it had been too long of a day already.

“She went down okay?” he questioned, breaking you from your trance.

“Yeah, she was fine. She made me read Goodnight Moon twice before she fell asleep, she said I read it wrong the first time around.” you say with a laugh.

“That sounds about right,” he chuckles in reply, shaking his head. There’s a beat of contemplative silence, then Steve looks back up at you, “also, before you head to bed. I just wanted to apologize for earlier, I–I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable by asking too many questions or anything, I’m sorry if I did.”

“Don’t apologize, you’re fine. I’ve been asked worse things, don’t worry about it.” you say with an assuring smile, earning one back from him in return that makes your heart skip a beat. “Goodnight, Steve.”

Steve says goodnight in reply and you turn on your heels to walk back downstairs. Exhaustion hits you all at once when you make it to the bedroom that you now call your own, throwing yourself onto the bed with a sigh.

It’s in that moment that you’re thankful for changing and getting ready for the night before you made your way up to put Amelia to bed, because now you can just cuddle into your new bed with no worries. Well, that is until your mind starts to wander.

All day you had brushed off the thoughts you’d had about Steve, the remarks Eddie had made about Steve, and the remarks Steve had made to you at dinner about being surprised that you were single. There was no reason for you to be overthinking it all, you told yourself. There was no reason for your stomach to flutter at the thought of Steve, your new employer, winking at you jokingly. There was no reason for your mind to wander when you saw him with wet hair and glasses, but you couldn’t help yourself.

What did it all mean? You shouldn’t even be thinking about anyone right now, you just went through a disgusting breakup with an even more disgusting man, you should be thinking about nobody but yourself.

You weren’t sure what any of it meant, and were truthfully terrified to find the real answer.

But that was for another time, as sleep overtook you not long after you set an alarm, mind still running as you drifted into slumber.

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#steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington angst #steve harrington fanfic #stranger things #stranger things fanfic #stevis writes

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whataperfectwasteoftime · 8 months

Text

Love Bites

Pairing: Marcus Pike x f!Reader (feat. Max Phillips!)

Rating: M (adult content, non-explicit smut, 18+)

Word Count: 9.7k

Warnings: Vampires! Blood drinking, talk of hunger (for blooooood) and killing (for bloooooood!). An art crime which is never actually solved, Soft Marcus, sarcastic asshole with a heart of gold Max. IDK if this is a threesome but it’s definitely threesome-adjacent, idiots in love, vampire venom causes euphoria and spontaneous orgasms because I said so, kissing, men kissing men, vampire bites, feeding, sharing blood through kissing,

Summary: You and your partner, Marcus Pike make a house call to the home of a wealthy art collector who just reported the theft of a two-million dollar glass, er, “sculpture.” At first, you can’t stand the smarmy Max Phillips, but when you find Marcus unconscious in the man’s living room, you find you have bigger problems than Max’s gross overuse of vampire puns…

A/N: I hallucinated this entire thing one night a few weeks ago instead of sleeping. Many, many thanks to @littlebirdsbookshelf for enduring and encouraging an endless line of screenshots of this fic and for helping with the moodboard!

Masterlist

As you read your newest assigned case file, your eyebrows feel as though they’re skyrocketing up into your hairline. You look up, shooting your partner a skeptical, unamused stare.

“Someone’s pulling your leg, Pike.”

Your partner playfully rolls his pretty brown eyes and flashes you that boyish smile that you lov–that you think is really nice, that’s all.

“You don’t think I had the presence of mind to fact check and verify this guy’s story? You wound me.”

“Who the hell spends that kind of money on this?”

Marcus shrugs. “It’s not uncommon for affluent art collectors to buy million-dollar pieces for their collections.”

“Yeah, but this?”

“Don’t tell me that you, of all people, are going to give me that old, tired dismissal of modern art simply because you don’t understand it.”

“This is a dildo,” you deadpan.

Marcus presses his lips together, nodding slowly. “...Some people have more money than sense.”

“Apparently.”

Your partner crosses over and picks up the file you’d dropped on your desk. “I spoke to the collector on the phone earlier,” he says as he scans the page. “Has a penthouse up in West End, told him we’d be up to do forensics this afternoon.”

“Yipee.”

“This is serious. It’s not every day that… ‘Arthur Feathermoore’s… Animals of Pleasure’… goes missing,” Marcus says, squinting down at the file as he reads the name of the sculpture.

You can’t help but snort at the title, and it causes your partner’s serious facade to dissolve into laughter himself, and the two of you giggling like rookies for a few moments before your eyes meet. Marcus’s face is the very picture of warmth, and as you often do, you feel as though you’re falling into his dark brown pools. The mirth is suddenly replaced by an uncomfortable silence that he breaks first, coughing awkwardly and looking back down at the case file in his hand.

“So anyways,” Marcus says brightly, “how about a little field trip up to West End?”

“You got it. I need to meet the idiot who spent a million dollars on a glass dildo.”

“Feathermoore’s Animals of Pleasure,” your partner corrects with a teasing smile.

“Quite the place,” Marcus comments as the two of you enter the ornate lobby of Maplebrook Heights, the building of luxury condominiums where your art collector lives on the top floor penthouse.

“I think it’s shit,” you say, eyeing the crystal chandelier hanging near the elevators. Something about the place makes you want to leave greasy handprints all over the spotless mirrors and stainless steel elevator doors.

You flash your badges to the lobby attendant, who picks up a phone receiver, listens for a couple minutes, nods, and sets it back down again.

“Mr. Phillips has been expecting you,” they say, leading you over to the elevators and pressing the top button without saying anything more.

When the doors open again, they reveal a man in a well-tailored suit with an overly-starched shirt and even starchier expression. The overall effect evokes a sort of statuesque rigidity–a man made out of stone. Suddenly, though, as if just noticing your appearance in the elevator, the man’s lips curl up into a smarmy, affectatious smile.

“You must be the feds,” he says in a buttery-smooth tone that you aren’t sure is real or as artificial as the rest of him seems to be.

“That’s us,” Marcus replies cheerfully, stepping forward and offering his hand. The man seems to pause, looking your partner up and down with his head cocked to the side before taking it and shaking it firmly.

Trying to be professional, you extend yours as well. Rather than give you the same firm handshake he offered Marcus, the man gently grasps your fingers and ducks his head as though he were about to kiss the back of your hand. Feeling off-balance, you give his hand an awkward squeeze and shake before stepping back quickly.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Phillips,” Marcus says, expertly disguising your discomfort, much to your relief.

“Max, please,” the man replies with an amused pout. “Come this way, I’m sure you’re both dying to see the scene of the crime.”

You shoot Marcus a look behind Max’s back, raising one eyebrow at his odd phrasing. Your partner shrugs gamefully before following the suited man through the double-doors to his penthouse.

As soon as you’re inside, your eyes widen at the décor. Every available inch of wall is covered in artwork from the Renaissance to the Modern, and you suppress the urge to gasp in amazement.

“Quite the collection,” Marcus comments.

“Mm, yes. You could say that I've spent generations acquiring it.”

“So art collecting runs in the family?”

“Of course.”

“This piece, er–Animals of Pleasure–was that an inherited piece, or…?”

Max grins widely, showing a row of alarmingly white teeth. “That one was a personal favorite–the sculptor is an acquaintance of mine.” He walks through the living room to an empty display case and regards it with a little frown. “Look at that. Like a wooden stake to the heart.”

“Apparently it was the personal favorite of someone else, too,” Marcus remarks.

“You’re a funny one, I like that,” Max drawls.

“In your report, you said you noticed it was gone on the morning of Sunday the 25th,” you interject. “What were the circumstances leading up to that discovery?”

“I had a… rather sizable party here the night before,” Max answers with a crooked smile. “I assume the culprit was one of my esteemed guests.”

“Got a guest list?” Marcus asks.

“Of course I do.” Max produces a paper from a nearby desk with an exaggerated flourish.

“Anyone on this list that might have shown particular interest in the piece?”

“They’re all a bunch of vampires,” Max scoffs dismissively, waving his hand. “I’m sure there are more than a few of them who’d love to sink their… teeth… into my collection.”

“Are you suggesting this theft was out of revenge?” you ask with a confused frown. “Did any guests have a personal vendetta against you?”

“Now, now, I’m practically the life of the party,” Max chuckles. “Most of the attendees and I go way back. There’s no bad blood between us; if anything, I’d say this is simply a distasteful prank.”

“You called the FBI for a prank?” you can’t help but ask.

“I like it,” Max says, putting on what’s clearly his best ‘sad puppy dog’ face with exaggeratedly upturned eyebrows and pouted lips. “It’s the crown jewel of my collection, and I want it back.”

“Of course,” Marcus reassures the other man. “We in the Art Crimes division treat art theft with the utmost importance it deserves.”

“Ah, yes, the FBI, always as serious as the grave.” Max says teasingly, giving Marcus a simpering smile. You don’t like the way he’s looking at your partner–sizing him up in the same way one would a conquest… or a meal.

“We’ve got what we need, Mr. Phillips,” you say brusquely, snapping your notebook shut a little more forcefully than necessary.

“Of course, of course,” the other man says dismissively, as if he couldn’t care less about the whole affair.

“We’ll keep you informed of any progress,” Marcus adds, smiling amicably. He always did do a better job than you of hiding his distaste for unpleasant characters.

“You should go use the little girl’s room before you leave,” Max suggests, again flashing you a row of perfectly white, straight teeth. “Long drive back to HQ.”

You’re just about to tell him where to shove that condescending suggestion, when you suddenly realize it’s a great idea. It is a long drive back, and you don’t remember needing to before, but for some reason as soon as the suggestion leaves his lips, you find yourself needing to find a bathroom sooner rather than later. You nod and excuse yourself, turning your back on the odd twinkle in Max’s eyes.

What a weirdo. You’ve worked with some characters before–and sometimes it seems the richer they are, the more eccentric and out of touch–but Max Phillips really takes the cake. The uncanny smile, the stupid puns, the uncomfortable innuendo that you never could figure out were intended for you or for Marcus…

You hope the case wraps up quickly, is the point. You finish washing your hands on a towel that feels as though it has a higher thread count than any set of sheets you’ve ever owned and hurry back to the sitting room where the two men are waiting for you.

When you get there, Marcus is lying on the floor, unmoving.

“Marcus!” you exclaim in alarm, pushing past Max–who is standing calmly as though nothing unusual has happened–and drop to your knees beside him. “What the hell happened?” you demand, staring up at the other man.

“Dunno. He just collapsed.”

You want to scream at him. How can you be so indifferent? A man just collapsed in your home. Before you can say anything, though, Marcus coughs.

You whirl back around, cataloging Marcus’s face frantically as he opens his eyes and blinks dazedly.

“What–Why am I on the floor?” he asks, staring up at you in utter confusion.

“You tell me,” you murmur, placing your hand on his clammy forehead. “I came back and you were on the ground. Mr. Phillips says you collapsed.”

Marcus sits up blearily. You watch as he frowns and shakily brings one hand to his neck, feeling it gingerly as though he’d been injured, although you don’t see anything to indicate it.

“Yeah,” he agrees breathlessly. “Yeah, just… collapsed. Uh–” He looks around the room with wary eyes.

“Can you get up?” you ask, standing yourself and extending your hand.

Marcus nods and allows you to pull him to his feet. Once standing, he sways and blinks rapidly, as if he were dizzy. When you place your hands on his shoulders to steady him, he giggles, like he suddenly finds the entire situation hilarious.

You don’t share his humor.

“C’mon,” you say, grabbing his wrist and trying to lead him away. You can’t explain why, but something in your lizard brain is telling you to get out of there as quickly as possible.

“Feel better soon,” Max offers lightly, smiling that unsettling smile again. “Drink plenty of fluids.”

You don’t bother answering.

Marcus continues to be unsteady on his feet, and you end up having to help him down the front steps of the building and into the passenger seat of the car.

“Hi!” he slurs enthusiastically when you enter and sit down in the driver’s seat. “Wow, I feel really funny.” You watch with growing concern as he holds up his hands and examines them as though he’d never seen them before.

You don’t know how to respond, so you busy yourself with adjusting the seat to your height, since Marcus had driven you there. Pressing and holding the button, the electric motor whines as you slowly slide upward, then a good deal forward.

Marcus giggles again. “You have short legs.”

“Astute observation,” you grumble as you turn the key into the ignition.

“Legs,” he repeats, and laughs again.

“Jesus,” you mutter. “Marcus… were you drugged? Did Max Phillips drug you?”

“No!” he protests. “I… I don’t think so?” he adds, sounding less sure.

“What happened when I was gone?” you asked. “Before you collapsed.”

Marcus shrugs exaggeratedly and makes a nonchalant ‘nnNNnn’ sound.

“You don’t remember?’

“Nuh-uh,” he shakes his head. “Wait… he said… the–the guy?”

“Max?”

“Max! Yeah. He said uh…” Marcus giggles again. “He said… I was pretty? That’s weird. Is that weird?” he looks over at you, looking so concerned and worried that you almost laugh in spite of yourself.

“Little weird,” you agree.

“He said that I was pretty… and that it would be a shame to let that go to waste,” he adds, frowning down at his hands as he remembers.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“I guess it means I’m pretty,” Marcus says matter-of-factly, sitting back in his seat and grinning for a few moments before suddenly sobering again. “I think he was… gonna hug me?”

“Hug you?” you ask, looking at your partner in confusion.

“Yeah, he… he was really close, and–” Marcus’s hand absentmindedly touches his neck again. “Nah. Never mind. I don’t think that’s right.”

“I think he gave you something,” you tell him, starting to feel more and more worried by the minute. “You aren’t acting like yourself.”

“Hey! You know what sounds really good?” Marcus suddenly asks, sounding excited. “Tomato juice. Except… not tomato juice. Something like tomato juice, but… different.”

“Like a bloody mary?” you ask skeptically, humoring him.

He purses his lips, as though thinking deeply about something.

“Yep,” he finally agrees. “That’s it. Bloody mary.”

“Great,” you say as you pull in front of Marcus’s building. “Tell you what, you go to bed and sleep off whatever the fuck this is, and I’ll buy you all the bloody marys you can drink.”

You help Marcus up the stairs (nearly an impossible task, because he keeps stopping and looking around him as though he’s never seen a stairwell with chipped paint and cracks in the walls before) and when you finally reach his apartment, you unceremoniously deposit him onto his bed.

He’s asleep the second his head hits the pillow.

You watch him snore for a couple of minutes, completely at a loss for what to do now. All you know is that you can’t leave him–not when you don’t know what’s wrong with him. And something is wrong. Every nerve in your body is in agreement there: Marcus is not okay.

You resist the urge to press your palm to his cheek and gently trace the line of his cheekbone. He’s asleep. He wouldn’t know.

No. Even now, you can’t bring yourself to give into that temptation. Even with as worried about him as you are, physical affection is still way off limits. You’d be showing too much of yourself.

Shaking the thought, you turn and walk from the room, quietly latching the door on your way out.

And you wait.

And wait.

By the time Marcus’s bedroom door opens again, you’re nearly frantic with worry. Just the soft sound of the doorknob turning has you jumping to your feet and muting his TV. You watch as he stumbles out, one hand pressed to his forehead and the other steadying himself against the wall.

“How… How long did I sleep?” he asks, face a maelstrom of confusion.

You glance quickly at the clock. “Twenty-five hours.” And seventeen minutes. Not that you were counting.

“What? Jesus…” he mutters.

“How are you feeling?”

“Starving. Like I haven’t had a proper meal in years,” Marcus answers, moving past you into the kitchen, where he starts opening cabinet doors at random, pulling out food items, examining them with a frown, and discarding them on the counter.

“I could, uh, order something?” you suggest warily, watching him go about his task in a whirlwind of movement.

“That’s not necessary,” he answers absentmindedly, staring blankly at a can of pinto beans before putting it on the counter next to a jar of artichoke hearts.

“Well, I’m hungry,” you say, grabbing a takeout menu at random off of Marcus’s fridge with a little more irritation than is warranted. “Shit.” You hiss, jerking your hand back and watching as a sliver of red appears on your thumb, a little bead of blood welling up and threatening to spill out of the newly-created crack.

Before you can blink; before you can even react, before your brain even registers the movement, Marcus is there. With a low, desperate, almost animal sound, he grabs your injured hand and brings it to his mouth.

The taste of you seems to make him moan louder; he greedily licks and sucks at the wound as though he were parched and this small papercut his only oasis.

At the touch of his tongue, or maybe the feel of his saliva, a sudden, inexplicable wave of euphoria washes over you. You gasp softly, watching with open-mouthed shock as he licks and licks and licks until there’s nothing left.

Eventually, Marcus slowly–almost reluctantly–releases your hand and blinks rapidly as though he were waking from a deep sleep all over again.

Whatever spell that seemed to be holding you in place breaks; you jerk your hand back and stare at him in horrified confusion.

“Marcus… what the hell?!”

“S-Sorry,” he offers weakly.

“Have you lost your mind?” You can’t tell if your question is intended rhetorically or not.

“I… I don’t know,” he answers softly. “I don’t know.”

“That’s not a comforting answer,” you say dryly.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” Marcus murmurs, quietly enough that you aren’t sure if he intended to speak the words out loud.

“Thinking about what?”

“How I want to– I want–” he begins, but whatever it is he wants, he never manages to say. Rather than finishing the sentence, his hand slowly comes up to–alarmingly–wrap around your neck, his thumb pressing directly on your pulse point. He’s too close; you can feel his rapid, heavy breathing against your face and all you can do is stare up at him, the silent question of what the fuck written in your eyes.

Suddenly, you’re being released and Marcus pushes you away, stepping back from you with an expression of abject horror all over his face.

“Leave,” he commands raggedly. “Please, you have to.”

You shake your head in protest, frowning. “Marcus, you’re not well–”

“LEAVE!” he roars, and you flinch as though he’d slapped you. In all your years as his partner, you’d never heard him yell. You take one more look at him–really looking, taking in his clenched fists, his heaving chest, and the odd, almost inhuman look in his eyes–and obey. Backing away slowly at first, and then increasingly quickly, you flee the kitchen.

Your hand is on his front door when you suddenly come to a halt. No. You can’t. You can’t leave him. You cast your eyes around until they fall on the door to the nearby guest bathroom. With a hissed curse under your breath, you open that door instead, slipping inside and locking it behind you.

For a few moments, all you can hear is the sound of your shaky breathing. Then, footsteps as Marcus approaches. They pause, as though he’s working out what happened. You jump, suppressing a shriek, when a loud thump resonates in the small room before you hear the unmistakable sound of someone sliding down the wall and onto the floor.

The heavy, defeated sigh is audible through the bathroom door.

“I told you to leave,” Marcus remarks sullenly.

“I left the kitchen,” you point out.

The answering silence lets you know what your partner thinks of that response.

“I’m scared,” he admits quietly. “Something’s… not right.”

“I’m here,” you tell him. “I’m not going anywhere. We’ll figure it out, okay?”

Marcus is quiet for so long, you almost begin to wonder if he’d fallen back asleep.

“I can feel you,” he suddenly whispers. “There’s a door between us, but I can feel your pulse like it’s still under my thumb.”

“Wh-what?”

“I can sense it all. Your heartbeat. The blood rushing in your veins. It’s unbearable,” he chokes out, voice breaking on the last word as though he were at the end of his wits.

“I don’t understand what that means,” you admit. “And I’m not gonna lie, that’s freaking me out more than a little bit, but I meant what I said. I’m right here and I’m going to help you, okay?”

“Okay,” Marcus whispers shakily. “I… I appreciate that. You–it–means the world to me. You being here, I mean.”

“Marcus,” you say, your heart pounding even more than it had been, “I–”

Whatever you had planned on saying is interrupted by Marcus’s cell phone.

“It’s Max Phillips,” your partner announces, somehow, after everything, jumping into work mode. “I’ll put it on speaker. This is Pike,” he answers.

“Hey, buddy!” Max’s voice is so cheerful compared to the tense situation you find yourselves in that it feels jarring and almost makes you physically recoil. “How ya feeling?”

“You,” Marcus hisses accusingly. “You did something to me.”

“Oh, that,” Max says dismissively. “I couldn’t help it.”

“Help what,” your partner growls.

“You haven’t figured it out yet?” Max laughs.

“Stop playing stupid and help us!” you shriek through the bathroom door, completely out of patience and good manners.

You’re greeted by crackling silence on the other end of the call. Then… “She’s… she’s still with you?” For the first time, the careless demeanor seems to have dropped. Max sounds… concerned.

“Not that it’s any of your goddamn business,” you snap, unable to stop the flood of anger now that you’ve released it, “but I was fucking worried about my partner after he left your house acting drugged–”

“Where are you?” Max interrupts. “I’ll come to you. Bring supplies. But she needs to leave. Now.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you shoot back belligerently.

“Your funeral,” Max says, adopting the aloof nonchalance once more. To Marcus, he says, “Text me your address.” Then the line goes dead.

“Are you going to tell him where you live?” you ask skeptically.

“I don’t think I have a choice,” Marcus says quietly. “I don’t know what’s going on with me, but it’s clear that Max does. And if he knows, then maybe he can… stop it, somehow.”

“What did he mean, ‘bring supplies’?” you ask.

“Dunno,” Marcus sighs. “Guess we’re gonna find out.”

You’re forced to listen to Max’s arrival through the safety of the bathroom door.

No sooner than he walks into the apartment, you hear him stop and–is he sniffing the air?

“She’s still here,” he accuses.

“‘She’ can hear you,” you snap.

“She’s in there?” Max asks, sounding indignant. “Behind that flimsy-ass door?”

“It’s not that flimsy…” Marcus begins, but Max cuts him off.

“Pal, I’ve seen newly-turned vampires claw through cinder block walls with their bare hands to get at a food source. You could have ripped that door from its hinges, but here you are–”

“I didn’t want to hurt her,” Marcus interrupts. “I couldn’t fathom it, I– Hang on, did you say ‘vampires’?”

“Yup. Like, y’know, Dracula and all that. Undead. Drinks blood. Vampire.”

“This was a mistake,” Marcus mutters. “You’re clearly insane, and I don’t have time to listen to the bullshit ramblings of a sociopath.”

“Oh, it’s bullshit now, is it?” Max says airily. “You’re going to sit there and tell me you haven’t been sitting there desperately trying to stop yourself from ripping your pretty partner’s delicate little throat wide open and gorging yourself until she’s a withered corpse?”

You can hear Marcus sputtering angrily… but he doesn’t deny Max’s accusation.

“Great. Now, we can continue arguing over semantics and nomenclature while you just get more and more hungry, or you can accept the truth and drink this.”

A zipper–on a backpack, you assume–unzips, and the faint sound of crinkling plastic reaches your ears.

“What the hell is that?” Marcus asks, voicing your question for you.

“B positive. I won’t lie to you, O-neg is where it’s at in terms of flavor and mouthfeel, but beggars can’t be choosers, pretty boy.”

“Are you giving him blood?” you shriek through the door, but no one answers you. Irate, you bang on the wood. “Hello!?”

“He’ll be right with you,” Max says in a sing-song voice. “He’s busy at the moment.”

“Marcus,” you say lowly, “please tell me you are not drinking blood right now.”

“Mmph–so good,” your partner groans through mouthfuls of… something.

“I’m coming out there,” you announce, jumping to your feet.

“Wait,” Max commands, an odd timbre to his voice, and you stop immediately, your hand hovering six inches from the doorknob. “Not until pretty boy here has another pint.”

“Marcus,” you say warily, pressing your palm against the door as if you could somehow feel him through it.

“I’m okay.” And strangely, Marcus’s voice is calmer, more… human… than it’s been since the moment he woke up from his day-long nap. You still don’t trust Max. But Marcus has been your partner for years. You’d trust him with your life–and you find yourself believing him when he says it’s okay.

“One more,” Max says. “O-positive from 2020. Practically a vintage at this point.”

You shudder, imagining your partner with red tinged lips, a trickle of blood running down his chin as he–

“How are you feeling now?” Max asks.

“Better,” Marcus answers. “Can… Can she come out? Is it safe? I won’t… I won’t hurt her?”

“Depends on the vamp,” Max says. “Most newborns I wouldn’t trust within fifty feet of a pulse, but you? You’re an odd one.”

“I’d never hurt her,” Marcus says again. “I’d rather die.”

Max lets out a loud, barking laugh, as if Marcus had just told the funniest joke he’d ever heard. “That might be easier said than done,” he chuckles. “But I get the sentiment. Come on out, doll.”

In any other situation, you might have scolded Max for even daring to call you ‘doll,’ but your body is thrumming with anticipation–and a little fear–to see Marcus again.

Carefully, slowly, you unlock the bathroom door and swing it open.

Your gaze–as it usually does–finds Marcus before anything else. He’s sitting on the floor opposite the bathroom, his long legs awkwardly bent in the narrow hallway, with two crumpled blood donation bags laying beside him. He’s staring back, his eyes swimming with apprehension and worry. The strange, animalistic glint you’d seen earlier is completely absent.

Still, you find yourself moving cautiously and deliberately, as though a sudden movement might break this tenuous moment of peace. You carefully sink to your knees, at his level, and extend your hand.

Marcus swallows thickly, watching you. For a few tense moments, he doesn’t move. Then, he shifts–and oh, how you hate yourself for flinching. You try to hide it, but you can tell by the hurt in his eyes that he definitely noticed. Never once taking his eyes off yours, he slowly reaches back until his fingertips are just barely brushing against yours.

You don’t miss how Marcus’s breath catches at your touch. His eyes slip closed for just a moment, and he lets out a shaky exhale.

“Hi,” you say quietly.

“Hey,” he whispers back.

“You scared me.”

“I know. I scared me, too.”

“Is this real?” you whisper, hardly daring to voice the question. “You’re really–?”

“I think I might be,” Marcus says softly. “It’s… it’s the only thing that makes any of this make sense.” He gestures at the two empty blood bags he’d been given by Max.

Max.

In a fury, you round on the other man, grabbing the collar of his stupid-expensive shirt and slamming him against the wall.

“What the shit–” Max exclaims in surprise.

“You did this,” you hiss, pressing against his throat. “You… you made him into this.”

“I couldn’t help it,” Max wheedles, putting his hands up in supplication. “I thought he’d make a really sexy vamp.”

“I’m gonna kill you,” you growl.

“I’d love to see you try,” the man drawls with a lazy smile.

“Hey.” Marcus says softly, putting a hand on your forearm and encouraging you to release Max. “What’s done is done. This isn’t going to help anyone.”

“It’ll help me,” you say dryly, still glaring at Max.

“I can see why you like her,” Max grins.

You shove harder, your other hand coming up to join the first as you take out your anger on the man’s dress shirt. “Here’s an idea. Stop talking about ‘her’ while she’s still in the room.”

Max suddenly sobers, sniffing the air again. “You were bleeding,” he says accusingly. “When?”

“What? No I wasn’t,” you protest. “Well, okay, I got a papercut, but it stopped bleeding ages ago, after–”

“After what,” Max prompts.

“He–” you begin weakly, your eyes flitting quickly to Marcus and then back to Max again.

Max moves you away from him as if you weighed nothing at all, before turning to Marcus with a look of utter disbelief. “You fed from her?”

“Uh… yeah, I guess I did,” Marcus answers slowly. “I… I didn’t really realize what I was doing, I–”

“Did you puncture her skin at all?” Max interrupts. “This is important.”

“No,” you answer for him. “He just… licked it clean, I guess?”

Max stares at Marcus skeptically, then turns to you. “He just licked it,” he repeats.

“And… sorta… sucked?” you add weakly.

“What’s the problem?” Marcus interjects.

“Newly-turned vampires aren’t exactly in control of their bodily functions,” Max explains. “A puncture might mean inadvertently injecting venom into your bloodstream.”

“Which means…?”

“Which means this would have turned into a two-for-one vamp special.”

“He can make me a vampire?”

“How do you think he became one in the first place?”

“I wouldn’t remind me of your role in this too much, if I were you,” you growl at Max.

“...Venom?” Marcus asks, interrupting your standoff.

“It’s got some interesting properties,” Max says with a grin. “Injecting it in its pure form will a vamp create, but the trace amounts in your saliva is what makes feeding fun.”

“Do you ever actually explain yourself?” you ask irritably.

“Let me put it this way. When pretty boy here licked that little papercut of yours, what did you feel?”

You think back to the moment–through the fear, through the unease, back to the sensation of Marcus’s lips and tongue on your skin. Finally.

“It felt… good,” you admit quietly.

“Just good?” Max asks, pouting his lip teasingly.

“Better than good,” you whisper. “It felt like… joy. Like everything was right with the world.”

You risk a glance at Marcus, who is staring at you open-mouthed with an inscrutable expression.

“That’s the venom,” Max says with a shrug. “Creates a feeling of euphoria in small doses. Can also cause spontaneous orgasm.”

Marcus makes a pained choking sound, and Max slaps him on the back. “That’s the fun part.”

“How the hell do you… feed… from someone without accidentally killing them?” Marcus asks.

“Carefully.”

“No shit.”

“I can show you if you want,” Max says lecherously, making a show of sweeping his gaze up and down your body in the most exaggerated way possible.

“I think the fuck not.”

Max guffaws loudly, slapping his knee. “I knew you'd be a good time.”

“He is not your good time,” you interject.

“At least let him speak for himself, princess! Nah, as… interesting… as that could be, I can tell when a guy's unavailable.”

“Oh,” you laugh awkwardly, shaking your head. “He's not–I mean, we're not–”

“We're partners,” Marcus adds helpfully.

“Oh yeah,” Max agrees condescendingly. “For sure. Just partners. Well anyway, apropos of nothing in particular, I wouldn't recommend feeding from anyone you particularly care about for quite some time. Not until you can control yourself.”

“Speaking of,” Marcus says, clearing his throat, “got any more of these?” He holds up one of the empty blood bags.

“No,” Max says indignantly. “I have got some backup supplies, but I wasn't exactly prepared for this situation.”

“What are you talking about? You turned him yourself.”

“No, this situation. The situation where you're here, with your pulse and rushing blood and warm flesh. Your presence would be fucking kryptonite for any new vamp,” Max hisses. “You're a neon sign of temptation. A little hen in a henhouse with a very hard-to-control fox. Had you not been here, two bags would have lasted until pretty boy here could arrange his own supply, but you complicate things.”

“Well, excuse me for making sure he was all right,” you say, placing your hand on Marcus’s arm in a way you hope is comforting.

Marcus murmurs your name softly, but urgently. “Can... Can you… back up? Just a little,” he asks, looking pained.

Eyes widening, you take several hasty steps backward.

“How long will it take you to get more?” you ask, not taking your eyes off of Marcus.

“Any amount of time is too long when you insist on staying here,” Max says.

“It worked out fine the last time,” you point out. “I'll just go back into the bathroom and lock the door again.”

Marcus shakes his head warily. “I–I don't know… Maybe you should leave.”

“Not a chance.”

“I don't want to hurt you,” Marcus says softly. “I don't even want the idea of it. Please. You don't know what you–”

“What I… what?”

“What you mean to me,” he confesses, and you could swear time stops. “I could never risk it. I can't… I can't bear the idea of losing you.”

“You won't,” you promise.

“I didn't want this,” he says bitterly, casting an agonized glance at Max, who, for once, has the decency to look regretful. “All I ever wanted was you.”

You feel as though you’d just had the wind knocked out of you, the words affect you so deeply. Resisting the urge to steady yourself on the wall, you fix Marcus with a stare that you hope conveys every single emotion you’ve ever felt for him.

“I'm staying here,” you say. “And that's final.”

Both men shake their heads at the same time.

“What if... what if he uses me?” you ask Max, ignoring Marcus's protest. “You said it's normal to uh… feed off of live humans.”

“I believe I also said it's something he shouldn't even begin to consider until he's out of the newborn phase,” Max says.

“What if he's careful?” you ask. “What if you help him?”

Marcus softly says your name in warning, but you don't back down.

“Whatever I mean to you,” you tell him earnestly, “you mean the same to me. The same and more, Marcus.”

Time seems to come to a standstill as his eyes widen with realization.

“You… You feel the same?” he asks breathlessly.

“For a long time now,” you find yourself admitting.

You watch as a slough of emotions flicker across Marcus’s face–yearning, longing, affection, and regret.

“I… I wish I had known,” he murmurs sorrowfully. “Before now. I’d… God, I’ve imagined this moment so many times, and in none of those times did I ever tell you to back away because I’m worried I’d just as soon kill you as kiss you.”

“I guess you owe me,” you tell him with a little chuckle. “When this is over. When you aren’t hungry anymore. You can drink from me without hurting me, I know it. And Max is here to stop you if you–”

“This is all very cute,” Max drawls, interrupting you, “but okay. Let's say he's careful. Let's say I stick around to help and intervene if he loses control. I want to make sure you understand that this is… intimate, you understand? Like, I'm all for a sexy romp, myself, but I don't know if I stressed the effects of the venom enough before.”

“You mean the uh–”

“Spontaneous orgasms,” Max finishes for you. “Yeah. Wasn't kidding about that.”

“So, what you're saying is–”

“Is that I'm usually all-in for a feeding orgy, but you two have something else going on entirely, and call me a romantic, but I'd rather not get between you.”

“So you do have a conscience,” Marcus deadpans.

“If you tell anyone, I'll deny it.”

Marcus takes a deep breath, and suddenly shudders. “Shit,” he mumbles to himself. “Shit, I feel–”

“Like you’ve been wandering a desert for days on end with no water? Yeah,” Max shrugs. “That wears off, or gets easier to manage, I dunno. But after a while it’ll start to feel more like normal hunger and less like a–” he trails off, waving his hands back and forth.

“Like an all-consuming fire threatening to stamp out every last shred of my humanity?” Marcus fills in wryly.

“Yup,” Max answers. “Something like that.”

“Does it hurt?” you ask softly, reaching out to touch him again.

This time, it’s Marcus’s turn to flinch. He pulls back, eyes widening in alarm and leaving you to wonder whether you really should be this close. But no, your desire to comfort the man you’ve been secretly harboring feelings for for years overrides your sense of personal safety.

Or any kind of sense, whatsoever.

So you persist, running your hand up and down his arm soothingly and watching his eyes flutter shut at the feel of your skin. The expression on his face–agony, yearning, desperation–causes an ache to sink like a stone in your chest.

“Yeah,” he answers with a rough, strained note to his voice. “Yeah, it hurts.”

You look to Max with pleading eyes. “Help him,” you demand. “Help us. It was you who got us into this situation, so if you have any sense of morality left in there, make it stop hurting.”

Max’s eyes flicker dangerously. “As long as you acknowledge what that entails,” he says quietly.

“Blood,” you deadpan (Marcus shudders pitifully again), “I assume.”

The other vampire rolls his eyes. “Sure, right. Fine,” he mutters, scooting closer to you and Marcus. “First lesson. You don’t bite here–” he carefully taps his index finger on your neck. “That’s either gonna get you another vampire, or a corpse. The, uh, thighs–” he clears his throat awkwardly– “are good places to feed, but you’ve gotta be careful about the femoral artery.”

Marcus lets out a pained sound and presses the heels of his palms into his eyes with gritted teeth, rocking slightly back and forth.

“Alright, that’s enough lessons,” Max says brightly. “Good place to start for a newbie is the wrist. So, uh, you’re just going to want to puncture the skin a teeny tiny bit, and drink from that. Less is more, waste not, et cetera, et cetera.”

No sooner than the words leave the other man’s lips, Marcus’s fingers curl around your wrist like a vice grip, and you gasp.

“Jesus, hang on a minute,” Max sighs. “New vamps, always so lacking in table manners. Listen to me–you’re gonna probably lose control and try to take more than what she can give, and I’m going to do everything in my power to restrain you and get her away. Up to and including violence.”

Just as Max’s words leave you wondering whether this is actually a terrible idea and you should have done what Marcus had asked in the beginning and simply left, Marcus’s eyes meet yours again, his expression surprisingly clear-headed.

“I won’t,” he says softly. “I said I’d never hurt you. That’s a promise.”

Solemnly, you nod. “I know,” you tell him. “It’s okay. I trust you.”

You slowly reach toward Marcus with your palm facing upward like an offering. You’re suddenly hyper aware of your heartbeat racing, thrumming loudly and quickly in your chest, and you somehow have the wherewithal to wonder whether Marcus will get more of you as a result.

Marcus cradles your forearm as though it were a precious gift. You can feel the trembling in his hands, see the quiver in his lower lip as he tries to keep all his emotions–the hunger, the fear, the worry–in check.

“Tiny bite,” Max reminds him in a low voice. “Just the tip.”

You shoot him a disparaging look, but when you see the ghost of a smile on Marcus’s face, you realize he successfully broke the tension.

Hesitantly, he lowers his mouth to the delicate skin of your wrist, and just as you’re wondering where the hell the vampire teeth are supposed to be, his face… changes. You do your best to hold in the gasp that threatens to escape; you don’t want to startle the man and risk him accidentally tearing your flesh. He’d put a stake through his heart himself, you muse. Wait–is that a superstition or a fact? You make it a point to ask Max later as you watch Marcus with curiosity. His face, it’s not ugly, exactly, but certainly monstrous. It’s grotesque in the same way the circus can be grotesque–in a way that fascinates you, thrills you, draws you in…

Your mouth falls open in a silent gasp as you feel his teeth sink into you.

The split-second of pain melts immediately to a wave of pleasure like nothing you’d ever experienced before. Every nerve ending seems to tingle, sending a frisson of electricity up and down your spine–again, and again, with every lick of Marcus’s tongue. It’s every good sensation you’ve ever felt condensed into one moment, and somewhere in the back of your mind you wonder if any human has ever become addicted to being vampire food. You wouldn’t blame them.

Soon, though, the fact that a vampire is drinking your blood completely fades, because all you feel is unadulterated euphoria. Euphoria… and Marcus. Now you’re consumed with one thought and one thought only: get closer to Marcus. You scramble into his lap without a second’s hesitation, not hearing the sudden sound of surprise that comes from Max.

Marcus, who had been single-mindedly consumed in his task, looks up in apparent awe as you straddle him. The hand not gently holding your wrist immediately winds around your waist and pulls you even closer. Now that your eyes are locked, you can’t look away. Those beautiful brown eyes that you know so well are flecked with an animalistic yellow-amber, his brow sharper and more pronounced in his monstrous form but still very much Marcus. He holds your gaze as he lathes his tongue across your skin over and over, each lick causing flames of ecstasy to course within you. You can’t look away–not even when he swallows gratefully with red-tinged lips and dives back in for more. You start to squirm in his lap, each little wave of euphoria–a side effect of his venom, you know, but it feels so real–causing warmth to build in your core. Marcus moans around your wrist when he feels you grind against his leg, and you start to whimper every time your clothed center meets the delicious resistance of his thigh muscle.

As your movements become more and more frenzied, so do Marcus’s; he licks and sucks at the little twin puncture wounds with a fervor that could only be described as carnal. Everything starts to pull up tight deep inside you, and you know, you know what’s about to happen–but suddenly, another arm is there pulling you back, away from Marcus, away from this beautiful pleasure unlike anything you’ve felt before and how dare they, you’re so close, you’re so close, soclosesoclosesoclose–

“That’s enough. Enough,” someone is saying behind you. “It’s time to stop.”

Marcus lifts his head, his lips still smeared with your blood and his eyes dazed and glassy. His face, although still contorted into this macabre new form, is open and unguarded as he tries to comprehend the source of the interruption. As Max pulls you away more forcefully, however, Marcus bares his teeth and hisses at the other man in what’s clearly a show of territoriality.

In a split-second, before you can even begin to worry about being in the middle of a fight between two vampires, Marcus regains his wide-eyed, earnest expression, and his exaggerated features seem to melt, giving way to the face you know so well.

“I’m fine,” he promises, chest heaving. “I’m okay. I’m done, I’ve stopped. Please, can–” he swallows, looking up at you with pleading eyes. “Can you come back? I just–I need–”

Before he can finish his sentence, you’re scrambling back into Marcus’s arms to kiss him with everything you’ve got. He opens to you immediately, his tongue darting out to explore your mouth, and you shudder when you taste the tang of iron. It should disturb you, you think to yourself. The blood, the fangs, the fact that he could kill you at any second. You should find his distorted face horrifying, but you can’t help but be mesmerized by his features in any form.

Marcus’s hands are everywhere–rubbing up and down your spine, gently palming your face, reverently stroking the skin of your wrist as if to apologize for taking what he so desperately needed from you. You sigh contentedly into his mouth as your hands explore him in kind–carding through the hair at the nape of his neck, pressing against the soft muscle of his chest, tenderly tracing the little crease in his brow in an unspoken promise of forgiveness.

You’ve imagined kissing this man so many times, and yet you now know you’ve never once come close to the reality of how it feels to have his lips against yours. It might be cliché, you might be projecting your own desires here, but everything about Marcus’s mouth simply fits, like a puzzle piece. Like recovering a long-lost part of you. Kissing him is coming home.

When Marcus pulls back, you follow him, causing a joyful smile to spread across his face as he whispers, “Are you okay?”

You smile back as you nod.

“Here.” Something orange is thrusted into your field of vision, and you look up to see Max standing awkwardly next to the two of you, still entwined on the floor against the wall of Marcus’s apartment.

You accept the fruit–because it is fruit–and start to messily peel it before popping a slice into your mouth.

“Do you feel dizzy at all? Lightheaded?” Max asks as he watches you chew.

You shake your head. “Nope. Nothing like that. Just… kinda tingly,” you giggle, glancing back at Marcus. “Not in a blood loss way, more like in a um, well. You know.”

Marcus grins and pulls you back down for another soft, chaste kiss.

Pulling back, you give Max a smug look. “Told you he wouldn’t hurt me.”

“I won’t lie, I’m pretty surprised,” the other man replies, frowning slightly. “You don’t have any frame of reference for this, so you’ll just have to take my word for it that this is not normal. New vampires cannot control themselves and kill any living thing they try to feed from. Every time.”

“How many of those new vampires were deeply in love with the person they tried it with?” Marcus asks, meeting your eyes with an ardent gaze.

“Of all the times I’ve dreamed of hearing that from you, I never imagined it would come out quite like that,” you say with a wry smile.

Max makes something like a strained choking noise in his throat, grimacing uncomfortably. “Well kids, this has been fun, but I’m gonna get out of here.”

He sticks out his hand and you accept it, letting him pull you up to standing. Once on your feet, all the blood seems to rush away from your head, and you sway slightly.

“She should lie down,” Max comments, watching you.

Marcus nods in agreement and wordlessly (and effortlessly) lifts you into his arms and moves in the direction of his bedroom.

“Does ‘she’ get a say in this?” you protest, although this time it’s somewhat more good-natured than before.

Your answer is another kiss from Marcus before he gently sets you down on the comforter.

Sitting here, on Marcus’s bed, with him hovering over you, opens up an entirely new set of opportunities. The look in Marcus’s eyes lets you know his thoughts are along the same lines, and when he inhales, his breath catches in his chest.

“I’d caution you against that,” Max says in his characteristic deadpan tone from the doorway. “Really easy to lose control in the heat of the moment, and he’s still hungry.”

“Are you?” you ask Marcus hesitantly, who shrugs and drops his gaze.

“Was trying to be polite about it.”

“I didn’t let him take much,” Max explains. “Far easier to rectify taking too little than too much.”

“Does that mean he could do it again?” you ask, the breathlessness in your voice giving you away immediately.

Marcus is, predictably, the one who quickly tries to shut that idea down, murmuring your name and shaking his head in concern.

“You don’t know how it felt,” you whisper. “I think I’d do it every day if I could.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Marcus answers for what feels like the hundredth time.

“You won’t,” you promise. “And besides, Max will be here just in case.”

The two of you turn to the other vampire, who’s leaning against the doorway with an exaggerated sulk. “Oh sure, let’s ask Max. I’m sure he won’t mind watching you feed in the throes of ecstasy… again. Max has no opinion, Max can manage his own hunger, it’s fine.”

“Done pouting?” Marcus asks pointedly. “I think I’m justified in saying that you fucking owe me one.”

Max glowers, but offers no further protest.

“Is this wrist sore?” Marcus asks you, running one fingertip across your skin. “Should I do the other one?”

You shake your head slowly. “I had somewhere else in mind.” Capturing Marcus’s hand, you guide it downward until it rests on your inner thigh. “Here,” you whisper.

Max makes another garbled noise, which Marcus deliberately ignores. Keeping his eyes fixed on your face, he carefully sinks down onto his knees before you. Carefully, so carefully he unbuttons your pants and draws them down your legs, leaving you in your underwear.

“Fuck, I can’t–” comes the sudden exclamation from the bedroom doorway. “If this is retribution, I guess I deserve it, but still.”

You turn your head to look at Max, who appears to be doubled over in pain, and something pangs in your chest. Marcus, who is still fixated on the crux of your thighs, ignores the interruption.

“Marcus,” you whisper, getting his attention.

“He’s fine,” the man murmurs, clearly distracted.

“He’s hungry,” Max groans pitifully. “I might not be a newborn anymore, but I have feelings.”

“He can wait,” Marcus growls. The words sound slightly slurred, and when you look down again, you can see his fangs already protruding.

Max makes another pathetic whimper as Marcus runs his nose along your upper thigh and inhales greedily. You stop him with a gentle hand carding through his hair.

“Maybe we are being cruel,” you say softly. “He’s been trying to help.”

“He’s not feeding from you,” Marcus insists darkly. The possessiveness seems to make his face transform even more–his brow thickening and his eyes flickering with an eerie yellow glint.

“She’s–she’s yours,” Max agrees weakly. “I know. Just—shit.”

Marcus pauses, his tongue darting out to touch the tip of one elongated canine as though testing their unfamiliar shape.

“Come here,” he commands.

Max frowns, hesitating.

“Before I change my mind.” Turning to you again, Marcus strokes the sensitive skin just below the seam of your underwear. “May I?”

“You might be the politest vampire I’ve ever known,” Max muses to himself as he walks toward the bed with cautious steps.

“Please,” you whisper.

Marcus runs his nose against your thigh again before he lowers his mouth. You feel the sharp sting of his fangs for only a second before a sudden wave of pleasure overtakes you.

Perhaps it’s the change in location–from your wrist to somewhere much more… intimate, but this time the sensation of his venom feels even stronger. So much so, in fact, that everything pulls up tight without warning and you come undone while Marcus’s fangs are still buried within you.

You shriek in surprise, bucking your hips instinctively, but Marcus follows, sealing his lips around your thigh and sucking. Each aftershock makes the wound feel like it’s pulsing, but all you can do is writhe on the bed and whimper as the vampire–the man you love–takes from you.

Suddenly, though, Marcus pulls back, pressing his hand against the twin puncture wounds, which are still bleeding openly. With his mouth clearly full, he fists Max’s shirt collar, pulling him in for a rough kiss. Max makes a shocked noise–you think you do, too–but quickly groans in pleasure as Marcus gives him your blood from his own mouth.

Over and over he repeats the action: gently licking and sucking your thigh as you gasp and squirm under the euphoric influence of his venom, then pulling back to give some to Max before swallowing it himself.

The constant waves of pleasure reach a peak several more times, although you can hardly keep track. The combination of the venom and the blood loss, perhaps, is making you woozy, and you’re already drifting in and out when Max gently tugs Marcus’s hair and draws him back. You hear him say, “That’s probably enough,” before you lose consciousness entirely.

Everything is peaceful. You don’t think you’ve ever slept this deeply or felt relaxation this profound. When your eyes open again some untold amount of time later, you do so with a lazy, serene smile.

You blink lazily, trying to gather your senses and focus on the scene in front of you. You can feel the rise and fall of a strong chest beneath you, comforting arms surrounding you as you lay on Marcus’s bed. You know without looking that it’s him that’s holding you, keeping you safe and protected with his body.

To your surprise, Max–you figured he’d be long gone by now–sits at the bedside, watching you with an unreadable expression.

“She’s awake,” he says to Marcus, who immediately loosens his hold and gently tilts your head back onto his shoulder to look at you.

“Hey,” he says softly, brushing his thumb across your cheekbone. “You scared me a little, there.”

“Told him it was normal,” Max says, with the air of someone who’s said the exact same sentence fifty times already, “and that she wasn’t in any danger.”

“Still,” Marcus fusses gently, scanning your face with a slightly furrowed brow.

“Here,” Max interjects, handing you a small bottle of gatorade and making sure your hands are wrapped around it before pulling back. “Drink this, and once you can sit up, you need to eat a little something.”

You accept the drink gratefully and take greedy sips until the bottle is empty. When it is, Max sets it back on the nightstand and hands you a couple of oreos pilfered from Marcus’s cabinets, and the rest of the orange from before.

“How are you feeling?” Marcus asks–still with a hint of concern in his voice–as you eat.

“Really good, actually,” you answer with a sigh. “That was–listen, not to be weird or anything, but that was… amazing.”

Marcus chuckles low in his chest as Max smirks next to you.

“Can’t say I minded that particular method of feeding,” the other vampire comments wryly. “Might almost be better than from the source.”

Marcus clears his throat awkwardly, and when you glance up at him again, his ears are tinged pink.

“I didn’t know that about you,” you say softly.

Marcus tries to shrug noncommittally, blushing deeper as he does. “I like to keep my private life private.”

“Fair enough.”

“Don’t mind sharing with the people I care about, though,” he adds.

“Awww, he cares about me!” Max simpers with a teasing pout.

“I hate you,” Marcus counters with no conviction or malice behind the words whatsoever.

“No you don’t.”

“I was talking about her, though.”

“And me!”

“Children,” you sigh, shaking your head in exasperation. “I hate to interrupt, but can I trouble one of you bloodsuckers for some juice or something?”

Marcus raises one eyebrow at Max, who salutes sarcastically and marches out of the room.

“I can’t tell if I like him or if I can’t stand him,” you murmur to Marcus when the two of you are alone.

“Makes two of us,” your partner hums, ducking down to kiss your temple.

“Really?” you ask incredulously. “Didn’t look like you minded so much before.”

Marcus huffs quietly. “It was the solution that came to me at the time.”

“Is that all it was?”

He lets out a slow, even breath as he tightens his hold on you. “No.”

“Wanna talk about it?” you ask, as Max comes back with a glass of juice and another handful of oreos.

“Maybe later,” Marcus answers, sounding a bit bashful.

“Vampires have super-hearing, you know that–right?” Max comments as he moves back toward the bed.

“Wh–what?” the other man chokes out nervously. “Really?”

“...No.” Max hands you the glass of juice with a deadpan stare.

You try and fail to contain your laughter, snorting as you cover your hand with your mouth to disguise the smile.

“But now I know you were talking about me,” Max purrs, leaning toward the two of you.

“No,” Marcus lies–unconvincingly.

“Pretty boy,” Max chastises with that same childish, teasing pout he’s done before. “I thought so highly of you–don’t tell me you’re in the middle of some silly gay panic right now.”

Marcus snorts. “We’re too old for that, don’t you think?”

“You tell me.” Max’s expression is guarded, but you can tell he’s very invested in the other man’s answer.

“Truth is, I’ve harbored feelings for this one for a long time,” Marcus says affectionately, looking down and brushing his hand up your forehead and over the top of your head. “A long time. And it feels disingenuous to even consider the idea of treading on that, somehow.”

“Right,” Max says, standing up stiffly and quickly. “I’m gonna–”

“Wait.”

The vampire pauses, eyeing the two of you warily.

“In a way, it was you who… brought us together, in a way,” Marcus continues. “In a weird fucking way, I’ll add, but I can’t deny that this day has been… beyond my wildest dreams. And–” he swallows thickly, licking his lips before continuing, “–you were a part of that, for better or for worse.”

You carefully sit up, extricating yourself from Marcus’s arms to lean up and kiss him on the cheek.

“I’m not used to this much attention,” he adds, laughing self-deprecatingly as he shakes his head in apparent bewilderment. “And now I’ve got the two of you looking at me like that, and I’m not sure what to do with myself.”

“Enjoy it,” you tell him with a soft smile. “I love you. Max likes you. Maybe that’s all we need to know right now.”

“He can speak for himself,” Max teases, parroting your earlier words.

You look at him. “Did you really turn him because you thought he was pretty?”

“Can you blame me?”

#marcus pike #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x f!reader #marcus pike x reader x max phillips #max phillips #the mentalist #bloodsucking bastards #pedro pascal

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deliciousangelfestival · 8 months

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A small head canon that I have for Cozy Secrets:

After the incident in the living room, Bucky's agency found several other potential places for him. Including apartments where he'd have the place entirely to himself. But he turned them all down because he wanted to stay near Y/N.

-Zombie

Thank you so much for the headcanon, my dear @thezombieprostitute. ❤️❤️❤️

The headcanon is based on this Cozy Secrets.

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Thank you to anyone who gave a like, reblog, and left a comment. It motivated me to write more.

Character: Spy!Bucky x Roommate!Female Reader

Here is the headcanon 💙💙💙

After Y/N's apartment got repaired, Bucky's agency offered him a new place to stay. Besides, his mission to watch their target was already done.

But Bucky said no. Because he likes staying in her apartment.

First, her apartment location is strategic. Not far from the train station, there are also a lot of cheap restaurants in the area, and her apartment is on the 5th floor. Bucky had enough living in the penthouse.

Because of her job as an interior designer, the apartment he staying in right now is cozy as fuck. It felt like home to him.

Before, he didn't understand what aesthetic meant, but when he watched the rain, sunrise, and sunset from the big window of his bedroom, he understood what it meant. He starts taking pictures.

He likes this place because it's clean too. And smells nice. In every corner of this apartment, Y/N put room essence.

There are a few times he shares an apartment with co-workers. They're messy and smell like cigarettes and alcohol. He can't talk much because, as a spy, they must keep everything secret. Because of the double or triple agent, Bucky must be careful with every word he says. With Y/N, he could talk about different topics; it made him remember that he's not just a spy.

The indoor plants make the room feel nice, too. Working as a spy, he never gardened. But now, he enjoys it. He helps Y/N take care of the indoor plants and water them.

If he lives alone, perhaps there's only a TV and a bed in his place. That's it.

And the coffee and brownies that Y/N made are just perfect. As a spy, he doesn't have the luxury of drinking comfortably. Usually, he will drink coffee at the coffee and watch his target. Y/N sometimes makes a lot of food, and she wants to share it with Bucky. His favorite is lasagna.

And the last thing Bucky felt anxious about, what if Y/N would have a male housemate in the future? He thinks that she will never have a better replacement than him. So, he decided to stay.

-I hope you guys like it-

Join taglist ? 💗💗💗

@thezombieprostitute

@vampire7595

@immortalfangirl

@sapphirebarnes

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@ordelixx

Chp 1 , Chp 2 , Chp 3 ,-

Main Masterlist || buy me Ko-fi 🥹💓

Thank you to anyone who gave a like, reblog, and left a comment. It motivated me to write more.

#bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x reader #bucky barnes au #james bucky buchanan barnes #buckybarnes #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x reader #james bucky barnes #bucky x you #bucky barnes #bucky fanfic #winter soldier #james buchanan barnes #the winter soldier #bucky #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barns fanfiction #spy!bucky #roommate!bucky barnes

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mirlvshft · 3 months

Text

introduction to my waiting room! — PART I .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪⚝₊ ⊹˚

this is part I of my very in depth showcase of my wr which is a luxurious penthouse in ny. i believe you can get a feel of the overall aesthetic so try to keep that in mind as you take in the visuals as they all do not reflect the same style.

this wr is like any wr, to relax in and whatnot. however i am catering mine towards my drself (criminal minds) which is reflected in part II.

if anyone has questions or further ideas please let me know! now…

「 ✦ welcome to mir’s

waiting room ✦ 」

| part II

weather

i have the ability to keep and or change the time of day and weather. although, a very soothing dim rainy weather would be constant more often than not. the temperature inside will always be kept nice and cold.

companion

the most recent addition to my wr: connor, an android from the game detroit become human. he’s company and sort of a helper. connor can help with absolutely anything— he has tons of capabilities in addition to what i personally added to him. he can do a number of things such as help in redesigning the penthouse, give advice, help with scripting, etc,. although i will say his purpose isn’t to solely act as a strict servant or android per se. mmm, almost like a roommate? like how androids become “alive” in the game. hope that makes enough sense. side note: i did not finish the game, i just can’t

bedroom

my bed is huge and so incredibly comfortable, it’s serene really. this also moves over to temperature, it never gets uncomfortably hot— the apartment as a whole is at a very crisp cold temperature. i have fluffy pillows that never go flat and support me amazingly. the bed also has the softest, fluffiest, plush blankets— my bed is literal heaven. the sides of my bed have these nightstands as you can see, consisting of all my little necessities; phone, headphones, etc,. everything will always be well kept and never change in condition; always pristine. if i ever want a drink or food, whatever i may want, it’ll appear on the nightstand. as for the rest of the room, it’s all pretty basic furniture.

closet

it’s huge, i mean huge. it literally has an upstairs but i couldn’t find a picture good enough but trust, it looks great. it has everything i have in my pinterest, all of my wardrobes. it’s organized by the type of clothing and color. another feature is any desired clothing i find while on my phone or any other way, will just show up there neatly organized for me. i can also do automatic alterations to pieces that don’t fit me like how i want them to, useful huh?

kitchen

my kitchen is pretty big and has literally everything i could ever want from food to all the necessary dishes; pots and pans, glasses, etc., i can think of a snack or food i want and it’ll just appear there but sometimes i want to cook, you know? don’t know if that’s an unpopular opinion or whatever but i definitely want to cook myself sometimes. i want to have the option to mess around and actually make food, bake and all that— i think it can be quite helpful and i find it therapeutic. although the mess that occurs always cleans itself up or connor can help me (bc fuck all that). everything will always keep clean; no dust, no mess, no mopping or anything and will always smell good with whatever scent i want lingering!!

bathroom

these pictures are good examples but don’t do it justice, it’s bigger and has a few more elaborate details. the hot water will never run out, any wash for body or hair, bathbombs, essential oils, etc etc,. all that would be ready in the cupboards or wherever i want it. this also goes for cosmetics and whatnot. the whole space is such a vibe.

i finallyyy made this post, its been sitting in my drafts since i damn near made this blog. i’m trying to open up more and not be so shy on my blog about my dr’s ( ˶°ㅁ°) !! but at the same time i could go on and on forever about them — finally putting this together was very fun and motivating!!

as lengthy as this guide is, i didn’t go in complete detail about every. single. thing. but just enough to explain the main features and rooms and to also give some scripting ideas to you guys too— i could go on forever but i will spare you all. if anyone has questions or further ideas to give me about my wr please let me know! (｡> ᴗ ☆｡) ‧₊˚

#— mir’s reality: shifting diary! ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧#shiftblr #shifting community #reality shifting #desired reality #shifting realities #shifting blog #reality shifter #shifting motivation #criminal minds shifter #shifting script #shifting advice #shifting diary #i have to organize my personal tags omfg

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neesieiumz · 2 years

Text

mellisonant - (adj) pleasant to the ear ————— | kento nanami |

Synopsis: he loves to take care of you, and loves to grant every wish you have, so when you ask to take him to a country club? How could he say no?

warnings: smut. 18+. semi-public sex. black-coded reader. possessiveness. praise kink. degradation. sir kink. kento is in his late thirties and early fourties. reader is in her late twenties.

ac: this the second time I’m posting this cause it flopped last time 😔. Hopefully y’all like it this time. I’m uploading Tokyo style after this one!

word count: 6.1k

-----

Kento doesn’t really remember how the two of you met, he recalls a restaurant, someone spilling something on someone, and the rest was history. At first, it started with small things, jewelry, packages sent to your address, and what-not. He loved it when you would wear them at your “meet-ups”, from the single charm ones to those of more refined taste, laid with jaded emeralds or ethereal sapphires. He would pay for your hair and nails, in exchange for choosing it every time of course, but he never left you high and dry with something you’d hate. You were a part of his life that he adores, despite his very… dreary life as a CEO.

So when he had seen you come to him, crying about how your apartment was ruined, and all the gifts he had given you were gone or destroyed. All of your important things were torn up by a robber breaking in, he had no problem with immediately relocating you, having no thought about not paying for everything. He wanted to move you into your own house, but you compromised from a penthouse. Since then, your life has been nothing but luxury and high life, to the point when you even quit your job. The money he gave you was well enough to sustain you.

“Kento!”

He turned around, seeing you walk down the penthouse stairs, seeing your bright smile along with your outfit. It was a vintage floral bustier blouse, paired with a long silk skirt and clear open-toed heels that showed off your new pedicure, provided by him truly. Your hair was up, having long wavy braids in a high ponytail tied with a ribbon that matched the color of your skirt as well. You were smiling wide, reaching out your hands to wrap in a close hug. His hands slid down your waist while yours went up to his back, pulling each other in. He took in a deep breath, taking in the sweet scent of your perfume. He pulled you away slightly, to be able to look into your eyes before pulling you into a deep kiss. Moaning slightly, his braids hands slid down your waist, easily cupping your behind and giving it a squeeze.

“Kento, fuck, we’re gonna be late, fuck,” you let out breathily, despite your body grinding on him.

He just chuckled, before letting your body go, but moving his hand towards yours. He held it, pulling you back into his body, face right near your cheek. You smiled, giggling as he left kisses along your cheek, slowly trailing them towards your neck/. He could feel wanting to pull away, so he let go, reluctantly he may add. He kept his hands on you somehow, resting them on your waist, still dangerously close to your pelvis.

“Kento I know you missed me, but I really want to go to this,” your voice had a whiny edge to it, but you still had a wide smile on your face.

“Let’s go then,” he whispered against your ear, before leading and guiding you out of the penthouse.

The two of you walked to the private elevator, going down to the private parking lot. Kento opened the passenger side of his luxury car, giving you a soft smile. The ride was smooth, he delved into the boring details about his recent business trip. Well, you didn’t think it was boring, it was as boring as what you would do (which is basically nothing.) He would soon drive on a private path, surrounded by trees and sunlight before revealing a wide vast land. At the end of the road, was the country club. A huge building, as if it was pulled out of Italy’s finest.

Imported palm trees from Peru, and the building looked exactly as you saw it on the website. Your eyes shined as you looked onto the building as it got closer and closer, bigger and bigger. You smiled over at Kento who was face forward, pulling up to the valet right outside of the steps to the building. There was a man, wearing a red vest that had a cursive label indicating "valet", giving a customer service smile as Kento pulled up. He parked, and unlocked the door, allowing the man to open your door for you. You smiled at him, taking his hand and thanking him. You waited as Kento handed him his keys, and was given a valet tag. Kento then took you in his arms, one hand around your waist while he tucked in his pocket as you both walked up the cobblestone stairs into the lavish building. The inside was quite different from the outside, with much more obvious renovations, giving it a more modern look. The two of you walked towards the reception area, where the lady looked up from her computer and immediately smiled in your direction.

“Mr. Nanami, it has been a while. Will you be joining Mr. Gojo for his tennis matches?”

Stifling a giggle, you turned away as Kento’s face twisted with contempt. A bit of a funny sight to you. You heard of “Gojo” before but had never seen him. All you know is that Nanami trusts him as a business partner but hates his personality so much.

“Are those today?” He asked the lady, pulling out some kind of card and giving it to her.

She nodded her head, taking the card and scanning it, “yes, both he and Mr. Geto are currently enjoying our facilities as well. I’m sure they’d love the extra company.”

“No, I don’t think I will, is there space in the greenhouse? We want to be able to enjoy the flora today,” he tightened his grip around your waist, pulling you closer.

The lady giggled a bit, before nodding her head, “there is always room for you sir.”

You opted to ignore the added saccharine to her tone, too invested in the scenery around you. You kept your long gazes to a minimum, not wanting to seem like a child clinging onto Kento. He simply thanked the receptionist one more time before pulling you to the right, taking you down one of the many hallways connecting all throughout the recitation hall. The hall was lowly lit, the beige walls decorated with different paintings, each having its own spotlight on them. One of the paintings was labeled to be a self-portrait. The woman was staring straight out at the painting, her deep brown eyes holding a multitude of emotions. Her hair was a fluffy brown, going with her deep olive-brown skin. It was long, going past her collarbone and into the loose wrappings of the dress she was wearing. SHe had a thin veil laid loosely on her head, most of her hair hiding it, and her face held a slight smile upon her plump lips.

Kento noticed your vested interest in the painting, making a small mental note before tugging on your hand.

“Come on, let’s go.”

You nodded, allowing him to continue to lead you towards the greenhouse area. You could see the light seeping through a glass door, and you could see bits and pieces of the scenery. Closer and closer you got, and soon enough Kento pushed open the door, revealing the beautiful scenery. The entire area was made of glass, allowing the sun to provide its natural light to illuminate everywhere. All over on the walls were different vines and flora, plants and trees all around, giving it a verdure look. The air smelled of lightly breezed jasmine and amber. You gaped at the area, looking all around it. Kento looked over at you, relishing in the spaced-out look in your eyes. He never misses out on that, which is why he loves to take you to places, and show you new things you never even dreamed of looking at.

“Table for two?” You heard a waitress call out, breaking you out of your slight trance.

“Yes please, and a table near the glass walls if you could, please?” Kento answered for the two of you.

You gave him a glossy smile, while the waitress simply nodded, grabbing two menus before leading the two of you towards a seat. As you walked, you took in the scenery more, loving it more and more. She gestured towards a table with a perfect view of the outside gardens, along with the scenery of the greenhouse all around. He pulled out your chair, much like the gentleman he is, gesturing for you to sit down. You thanked him, sitting down with a wide smile. Once he was seated, the two of you opened the menu, slightly discussing what was on the menu. A waitress comes by and takes your order, you get a cajun shrimp alfredo while Kento gets a well-done steak with some sides. He also orders a bottle of expensive white wine, with water of course.

“White wine…? What’s the occasion?” You gave him a smile as you handed the waitress the menus, placing your arms on your table, leaning forwards, and resting your chest upon them.

Kento just gave you a slight smirk, leaning forwards as well, “can’t I just want to celebrate being back in your presence after so long?”

You laughed a bit at that, “you were only away for two weeks.”

“And you’re telling me you didn't miss me during that time, those late-night phone calls say different things.”

If you could blush, you’d be beet red but you could still feel the heat of the moment burn through your cheeks, looking away coyly. The waitress interrupted the moment the two of you had, brought over the white wine Kento ordered, and placed the waters each in front of you. You thanked her, and watched Kento as he poured the both of you a glass. He handed it to you, and together you gave gaslight toast, before taking sips of it. The conversation between the two of you was light, easy-going as it usually is, finding yourself in easy territory. The food arrived thirty minutes into the conversation, the conversation soon ceasing to allow the two of you to eat in peace. Kento didn’t like when people ate while speaking so it was constantly quiet between you during this time.

You enjoyed the hum of the people conversing all around you, all different people from different high-paying careers all within one place. The food in front of you was amazing, enjoyed the nicely-seasoned shrimp, which left a kick in your throat. You cooled it down with a sip of your wine, before turning your focus towards Kento. His sleeves were rolled up, as he cut into his steak, eating it piece by piece. Your eyes followed the piece of meat between the sprung of his fork, him placing it in his mouth and chewing away at it. You couldn’t keep your eyes off his tongue that came out, wiping away the juices that dribbled on his lips. Squirming in your seat, and crossing your legs caused Kento to look up at you, noticing your behavior. He just smirked, gave you a look, and was about to go back to his food when suddenly,

“NANAMIN!!”

The two of you jumped simultaneously, turning towards the sudden call of Kento’s last name. You could hear Kento curse under his breath as a man, sweaty and wearing a white collared shirt and shirt while holding a tennis racket. He had white spiky hair and had a sweatband holding it up, with black shades hovering under his eyes. He had a huge smile on his face as he approached your table. You looked over at Kento who had just placed his hands on his temples, rubbing away at them. You held back your giggles at his expression, as the man stopped right in front of your table, hovering over the blonde man.

“Aww, look at you overcome with joy at seeing me that you can’t even speak!!”

You couldn't hold back your laughter as you threw your head back at the man using his hips to nudge Kento, who was easily gaining a migraine with every noise.

“Gojo… what are you doing here…? Wait, that’s a stupid question, how did you know I was here?”

The man simply just smirked down at Nanami, before telling how the receptionist off-handily mentioned it, before shutting up and realizing her mistake but of course but it was too late. So immediately, he made his way over here to come and bother him of course. You just sat back, enjoying the banter between the two men. Before something caught your eyes. Standing a couple of feet away from him, was a woman, also dressed up in a white-collar shirt and skirt, holding her own tennis racket as well. Her deep tan skin had freckles along her body and face, and her red bushy hair was held up in a high ponytail, with a visor on top of her. A necklace dangled from her neck, gold with the initials S.G on them. She must have noticed eyes on her because she looked towards you. You flinched a bit from the sudden eye contact but still, gave her a slight smile, and a wave. She blinked at this, but waved back, giving you a small smile as well.

“Anyways, why didn't you join me for tennis, you know I would have enjoyed your company!”

Kento simply rolled his eyes, “I’d rather not join you for your or Geto’s games. I have better things to do.”

Gojo didn't let that deter him, looking away from Kento for a moment, and looking at his table which in turn made him look at you for what seemed to be his first time. He looked down at the table before looking back towards you, before giving you a smirk.

“Oh, better things to do indeed.”

Kento groaned a bit at his teasing words, making Gojoj laugh aloud, slapping him on the back with each loud chuckle. At this point, the entire room was looking over at you subtly, and you knew their conversations had shifted towards what was happening at the table. You looked back at Kento, reaching over to the table and placing your hand over his. He looked up at you, as you gave him a cautious smile.

Gojo must have caught the looks between the two of you. Chase stood up straight, grabbing his tennis racket on the way up.

“I’ll leave you to it, Nanamin, have fun.”

With that, he left, the woman joining him right away. Gojo wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close. You turned your head, simply ignoring the way his hands slipped into her skirt as the two of them walked out of the greenhouse. You stared at Kento, waiting for him to say something.

“Sometimes I wish I never met that man,” he sighed, pulling himself back into his seat.

“He’s just… eccentric, he seems nice enough,” you smiled at him, placing your fork down on your now empty plate.

“Nice way of saying pain in my ass.”

Kento took some time to finish his food, before placing his fork down and waving down your waitress who immediately took your plates, placing them on a cart before pulling out sleek smaller menus. Your eyes lit up, seeing the menu placed in front of the both of you. You saw all kinds of different treats you wanted, from sticky cinnamon rolls to squishy sponge cakes, it was all so good. Kento’s own countenance brightened at the sight of yours.

“Would you like to see the desserts today?”

You looked over at Kento, “can I get it to go, I don’t think I can take another bit.”

He smiled at you, before nodding his head, your eyes lightened up at his assurance, before using your manicured finger to guide your eyes as to what caught your eyes the most.

“Can I get a slice of black cherry cake, the red velvet mini cakes, and the pull-apart cinnamon rolls to go please?”

----

You giggled, walking along the cobblestone paths through the huge private gardens and forest. Holding your box of deserts close to you, the light breeze blew into the trees, cooling you down slightly from the heat. Kento trailed behind you slightly, smiling at the way you enjoyed the environment. Turning around, you looked at Kento who was looking at you. You gave him a smile, before turning back to your surroundings. The grove of Sakura trees lined the main pathway, leaving breaks for the smaller pathways that lead deeper into the club’s forests. The sun peeked through above the branches, often trees, shining through the baby pink leaves. There were some leaves on the ground, not as much as one would expect. According to Kento, they get cleaned up every three hours, to provide a “clean” experience. Gojo’s words, not his, Kento said. The air smelled slightly sweet, mostly due to the cherry blossom trees you were just ogling at.

“Baby,” you hear Kento call out to you, causing you to turn towards him.

He stopped near the entrance of another trail, one hand in his pocket. The other was out, two fingers slowly gesturing for you to come close to him, which you immediately followed. You held your box of sweets close as you stepped right in front of him, bending your neck back to look into his deep brown eyes. For a moment, the two of you were silent a bit, the language of the winds and nature speaking in between you. Soon after that, you could feel his free hand up and cup the side of your face, caressing and holding it gently.

“Kento?” You whispered against his hand, ever so gently, nuzzling into it.

You could feel his thumb move over your lips, pulling down the bottom one ever so slightly, revealing some of your bottom teeth. He didn't mind the lip gloss staining his finger, ignoring the shining spot as he moved his hand from your face to your hands. He slowly took the box from your hands, holding it in one hand before taking your other, leading down the smaller private path. The sun slowly hid behind the sun of the much taller, thicker trees. The area became darker and darker as the two of you went further and further into the miniature forest.

“Kento,” you couldn't hold back your giggles, “where are we going?”

All you got was a look and a smile that showed rays of that hidden mischievousness he would show ever so often. He continued leading you down until you got to a clear patch, the tree lined so rays of sunlight would peak out perfect for you to be able to see the wooden bench someone had clearly put there. Your smile beamed as he led you to the bench, placing your box down before sitting down and pulling you down right into his lap.

You laughed at the feeling of his breath near your neck, the feeling tickling you as you could feel his hands caressing your lower back, rubbing circles into it. Your hands slid up his body, feeling his muscles underneath his shirt, before wrapping your hands around his neck, pulling his head towards your own. You licked your lips, the taste of your strawberry lip gloss tainting your lips before feeling Kento's own lips encapture your own. The kiss quickly became ravenous, much like he was right before you left for the country club. You could hold back the moan that fell from your lips, Kento’s hands went from your lower back to your thighs, hands digging under your skirt and slowly lifting the silk garment up. His fingers thumbed at the thong you were wearing, lifting it up ever-so-slightly before letting it go, snapping against your skin.

You gasped into the kiss, letting go and hissing in pleasure at the twitch of pain. He smirked, lifting his hands up to rest them right on your plump bottom.

“Kento,” you let out a breathy moan, “K-kento, fuck we're in public, we shouldn’t do this here.”

You could feel his wet lips lay kisses align your neck, the toe-curling feeling making you squirm within his hold.

“Mmm, you telling me you don’t like the way you're feeling? Because I can stop right now.”

You could feel his movements slowing down and before you knew it, your hands flew up to his shoulders, your sharp nails gripping his shoulders. Your hips moved, grinding again this hard-on threatening to break his zipper and button. Kento smirked against your necks, before continuing his ministrations against you, having a good grip on your ass.

“Kento,” you dragged out his name, whining, hoping, and begging he would stop teasing you.

You could hear him chuckle against you, relishing in the way you squirmed against him. Your skirt was bunched around your waist, ass shown to the depths of nature. You could feel your braids grazing against your bare skin, the chirping of the birds in the distance, the silver ray of sun hitting your skin just right. Everything around you was heightened as you took in Kento’s actions. Your pussy was drenched at this point, leaving stains upon his dark pants. Kento groaned against your body, his dick twitching against its confines. Your hands moved back down, fingers fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, only getting a couple off revealing part of his toned chest.

“Kent--, sir, oh sir,” you moaned out loud as you could feel his hand move from your bottom to your wet cunt.

His fingers skilly fully moved past the string covering your entrance, one of his thick, long fingers entered inside you while another rubbed away at your clit. You gasped at the euphoric feel, head thrown back and keening at the rush flowing through veins from your lower abdomen. His pace quickened, and your pussy only dropped even more, possibly coating his hands at this point. Despite all your writhing, Kento had a good grip on you, with one hand only. That realization only made your body willing and long for him more. Yout out a scream, legs twisting in anticipation as you could feel your first climax building up, so quick like a hasty bomb ready to explode.

“Sir, I’m gonna cum, “ you let out a high pitched scream, and before you knew it, clear liquid came out, making a mess all over your thighs and Nanami’s shirt and clothes.

You let out deep heavy breaths, spit and drool dripping down your lips and against your chin. You were a mess, eyes dripping tears, slightly dark from the mascara and eyeliner you wore today. Kento relished in the way you looked, good despite all appearances, and how much he loved to see you smile, he loved to see you cry and beg for him more. To know that he has you crying out for him, to forget all morals that you had for yourself. To let him break you down each time you fucked him, or rather he fucked you. Suddenly tasting pennies, Nanami glanced down to find his lip broken open from him biting his lips too hard. Look at him, it seems he got a bit carried away.

Your sobs had quieted down a little, but he could still hear you as you spoke, whined really, begging for “sir to fuck you.” His debauched little slut, oh how he wished he could spend time forever floating with nothing but the two of you. That, however, requires a deeper conversation that both of you are willing to avoid, so rather he’ll take what he can get, or rather what you can give him until the both of you are ready.

Kento moved the thin strap to the side once again, before whispering to your ear, “pull my cock out sweetie.”

His sudden command shook you out of your trance, but immediately you nodded your head. Your hands flew down to his pants, fumbling and hitting the button cause it was slightly slippery with your juices, but you got it off and you unzipped his pants. Only pulling down his boxers slightly, you gasped slightly as his dick basically flew out, making you jump slightly in his lap. The usually punk tip was an angry red, and it was slick with pre-cum, it was thick and throbbing in your hands. With every movement you made, you could feel him move, hear him hiss slightly, and groan. Slowly you moved your hands up and down, the pad of your thumb pressing against the very tip of his cock.

“Fuck, Princess stop teasing me,” you smirked slightly as he groaned out, before gasping at the sudden smack he left on your bottom.

Slowly, he held you underneath your bottom, lifting you up before placing you right over his cock. Slowly, you could feel pressure, choking on your spit as he slowly entered inside of you. You could feel your excitement tingling underneath your skin. The stretch felt so good, the pain making you yelp as you went lower and lower against him. Sweat dripped down your back, the same for Kento’s face and chest as you held him by the back of his head. His hands held a tight grip on your ass, as you gasped, the full feeling slowly etched itself into your veins. The smell of his musky cologne, the hint of vanilla, and the strong smoky smell of cardamom. You couldn’t help but clench around his length, pulling yourself close to him as he grunted. He was breathing heavily underneath you as he took in your wetness, placing a kiss along the side of your head, right near your ears.

“So big,” you are your head back in complete ecstasy, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

All of this immense pleasure had you forgetting you were even outside, you were lucky that Kento even took you someplace with a bit more privacy, but honestly, at this moment, you could not give a damn.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” you stuttered out curses as you slowly lift your hips, your body still getting used to his size.

Kento took your slow pace, allowing you to take control as best as you could. With every movement, you could feel him twitch and move within you. You could feel your wetness dripping all over him, allowing you to move more and more rapidly. Kento’s head was spinning, moving his arms up and down to help stabilize you as you rode him faster and faster. Your moans and screams echoed throughout the forest, and underneath he knew no one would come and disturb you. Your fingers weaved themselves with his short blonde hair, messing up the slicked-back style he had this morning. One of Kento’s hands moved from where he placed them, to the back of your neck, pulling your head even closer before swallowing your lips into a rough kiss, almost bruising your lips. Kento leg’s spread, making your own spread as well. He stabilized his feet, and before you knew it, he had started thrusting his hips into you, outpacing your now-medium one.

“Oh fuck!” The sudden change of pace had you muffling your screams into his mouth, legs trembling and shaking.

“God,” Kento grunted in your ear, “I can't get enough of you.” He whispered in your ear, as he let go of your lips, swollen from the harsh and intense kiss.

“So full,” you babbled, “fuck you make me feel so full, sir,” you spewed out curses as Kento behind huff and puffing.

“Hmm, I do, huh?” His teasing voices caused an almost visceral reaction within you, your body involuntary thrashing within his hold.

“Yes sir,” you keened in his hold once again, feeling a pool of heat and pressure build-up within yourself.

“All out in the open, all for me right?” His teasing tone took on a more slightly possessive one as he continued to ramble on, a signal that he was soon reaching his climax.

You could only hum out confirmations, too tongued at this point to even speak. He continued to speak in your ear, getting more and more talkative by the second. You couldn't concentrate on his words, anymore, your ears filling with cotton with every second.

“So sweet and all for me, right. No one can fuck you like I can, isn't that right.”

You couldn't even respond to him, your moans going higher and higher in octaves as your hands moved from his hands to his shoulders, gripping onto him tightly as you dug your face into the base of his neck. A sudden smack to your ass jolted you out of your trance.

“Fucking answer me.”

You squealed, “M’sorry sir!”

He smirked at that, that final “sir” sending him over the edge, and it seemed you had reached that same peak. With a few more hasty and uneven thrusts, he came right inside of you, with no intentions of ever pulling out of you, that’s what he put you on birth control for right. At the same time, you let out a final squeal, your nails dragging themselves into his shirt to the point where they tore through, allowing them to leave a few things all scratched on his skin. He hissed slightly at the pain, however it didn't deter him as you planted your lips on his once again. This time the kiss was softer and sweeter, allowing the two of you to ride out your sudden climaxes. Slowly he released his hold on you, allowing you to move around him just a bit, your joints cracking a bit.

He let you release the kick, sitting up a bit as you moved around, grimacing at the wet sounds. Your bustier top had fallen due to the pressure, hand moving to your breast to push the top back up. He placed a kiss on your temple, before helping you up and off of him. You squealed at the sudden empty feeling, a mixture of both you and his cum dripping down the sides of your thighs.

“I’m gonna get all sticky,” you whined, looking down at the juices slowly sliding down your skin.

You moved your skirt back to its original position, but you knew that wouldn’t help the situation any better. Kento chuckled slightly at your situation, pulling his boxers back over himself before zipping and buttoning up his pants. Once situated, he stood up straight just as you were pulling down your skirt which was wrinkled to the extreme. You couldn't see yourself but you knew that your makeup was ruined. Kento could feel a cool breeze enter through the rips you made into his shirt as he approached you. He wrapped his arms around your waist, slightly grinding himself on you.

“Don’t rile me up again, Kento. I’m already sticky and dirty,” but you couldn't hold back your giggles as your body followed along with his own.

He simply smiled, giving you a peck on your lips before letting go of you, grabbing you by your hand before pulling you back down the path. On the way, he bent back down on the bench, picking up your box of sweets before going back the way you came. You soon made it back to the main path when you realized that Kento was leading you back to the country club building. Quickly, you pulled out your phone, realizing your intuition was right about your appearance.

“Wait Kento, I can't go back there looking like this?!”

He looked over at you, tilting his head a bit before turning back towards the path. You tried to fight him every step of the way, but he just continued you on. You could see the tennis court up ahead, Gojo and his black-haired companion along with those girls no longer there. You tried to speak up again but then Kneto went off the main path again, this time leading to another one that led to the side of the building. There was an armored door, and on the side, you could see a card swipe mechanism. Kento went into his wallet, pulling out the same card the receptionist had scanned, and swiping it. Immediately the door had beeped a bright sound, the red light in the machine turned green and you could hear the door unlocking. Kento reached past you, going for the door and pulling it open, and gesturing for you to go inside.

Immediately, you found yourself in a dimmed hallway, all with doors, all closed. As you took a couple of steps down, you looked at the door to your left and found the black door had its own card swipe locking machine, and there was a name plaque a few feet above it. You looked around and saw the different doors all looked the same, a black door with a card swipe machine but a different name on the plaque above. Kento got in front of you, leading you down a few doors, before stopping right in front of one. You peeked from behind just as he was unlocking the door, looking at the name plaque near the door.

Nanami Kento.

The door unlocked, revealing a dark room at first, Kento had leaned over, turning on the lights revealing a well-decorated room, reminding you of the living room at Kento’s Osaka mansion. The room was mostly tan and beige, with wooden floors to align with it. In the middle of the room was a sunken circular sofa much like the mansion this area reminded you of. You took a few steps in before Kento grabbed you by the arm, leading you down throughout the room before arriving at another door. He opened it this time, revealing a smaller room. One look around has you realizing that this was a closet filled with Kento’s clothes.

You turned towards him, eyes filled with stupor, “how-- how long have you had this place?”

He gave you a look, not even saying a word before going to another door that was connected to the closet. You stammered and sputtered, going after him about to give him a piece of your mind when you joined him in the other room you were looking at him and stopped right in your tracks.

It was another closet, but this one was filled with… dresses and other outfits. You took even more steps inside, going to one of the racks connected to the many drawers and tall dressers. You pulled one of the dresses off the rack, before placing it right in front of your body, turning up to the overarching mirror on the walls. The dress was see-through and sleeveless, silver and shimmering with the design of a butterfly wing as the main design. It was short and asymmetrical, one side longer than the other, imitating a slit. There was one chain going from the neckline that seemed to wrap around your neck. You grabbed at the tag within the inside of the dress, seeing that it was exactly your size.

You turned towards Kento who was simply smirking at your reaction leaving against the doorframe.

“The moment you asked about coming here. I had a simple membership before, but upgraded to the one that gives me my own private room.”

He stood up straight, reaching in his pocket and pulling out his wallet, before pulling out a card. Kento handed it to you, and you looked at it, eyes widening at what was on it. It was a membership card, allowing you complete access. You looked back up at him, eyes wide once again, before looking down at it.

“This is for me?” Your voice was small, uncertain as to what was in front of you.

He confirmed it, using one of his fingers to push your head up to look at him, and a soft smile on his face. You broke out into a big smile, dropping the dress and wrapping your arms around him, squealing. Kento immediately responded, wrapping his arms around you, before hoisting you up.

“Thank you,” you mumbled against his lips, right before he encaptured them into a deep kiss.

Kento stumbled back into the wall near the door, holding you by the waist. Your hands trailed down his ruined shirt, fiddling with buttons once again. Breaking off the kiss, a sliver of spit connecting your lips, you gave Kento a devious look.

“How about we,” you ground against his hips, feeling that familiar length rising up, “break in the new room?”

He looked down at you, giving you a slight smirk before immediately swishing and carrying you out of the room, making you laugh out loud, the joyous sound echoing all throughout the private room.

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