Hey! I'm Back From The Dead!

positions

cw: nsfw, gn.reader, some size kink

includes: homelander, butcher, frenchie, black noir, hughie, solider boy, MM

Homelander - likes when you’re on top. Don’t get it wrong he still has control but, he likes watching how you pant and struggle to take him all. Besides he gets a nice view of your chest while he bounces you on his cock. Absolutely bucks up into you to see how you squeal and grip his shoulders. He also likes it because he doesn’t have to do much work, he’s a supe and works hard ya know?

Black Noir - ass man. Loves doggy style the most. Grips the fat of your ass while he just plows into you. Smoothes his hand on your hips to bring you down on him over and over. Lives to see how you flutter and clench around him. Will push your face into the sheets and leave bruises on your ass.

Butcher - reverse cowgirl all the way. Another ass man who likes to watch you take his cock. You just look so good this way, and he likes how you lean forward to grab at his thighs. Smokes while he fucks you, puffing out while he spreads you open so he can watch how you take him. Makes comments on how slutty you are.

MM - missionary. The classic choice but he loves it. Props himself on his elbows so he can watch your face while he pounds into you. He likes to tuck his face into your neck, nipping it and making you squirm from his beard on your skin. Sometimes gets so into it he’ll lift up your legs onto his shoulders to reach deeper.

Soldier boy - mating press?!? Mating press all the way. Folds you up and stuffs you full, can go for hours. Ben just pushes your legs up and gives you deep strokes that make you starry-eyed and and breathless. He gets so deep you push his chest and he just mocks you from above. Thanks to the V he’s got endless stamina and besides, he hasn’t been able to pump someone full in decades so good luck.

Frenchie - y’all already know this man likes to be dommed. He’s down for absolutely anything and everything. Doesn’t matter if you’re holding his wrists while you fuck yourself with his cock or if you’re fucking him. He practically loves every positions, but he does enjoy 69 a lot.

Hughie - sweet sweet boy likes when he’s tucked behind you. Its so nice because your thighs are clenched together and it’s makes you tighter. The fucks lazy and soft and he just tucks your underwear to the side so he can slip in. You’re clawing at the mattress while he just does slow thrusts. He’ll kiss the back of your neck while he holds you.

A Dark and Winding Road || Travis Hackett x f!reader || NSFW [minors DNI]

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Summary: A late night on a long, dark road in the middle of nowhere. An exhausted, small-town cop itching to give you a speeding ticket. Surely a little flirting would go a long way to get you out of trouble, wouldn't it?

CW: dubcon, vaginal fingering, blowjobs, f!reader, use of "ma'am" to refer to reader

Word Count: 4.6k

AO3 Link ---

You took one hand off the steering wheel and shook your arm, trying to loosen your tightly-wound muscles, feeling your fingers locked into a semi-permanent grip. You couldn’t remember how long you’d been driving anymore--had it been hours? Perhaps weeks? It was all hyperbole of course, but that’s where your mind went after being stuck in your car for so long, all in the name of trying to make it to your cousin’s wedding that you weren’t even sure you wanted to attend. You glanced down at the clock—just a little before midnight.

“Ugh. Eight hours in this fuckin’ car,” you mumbled aloud to no one in particular. “I’m gonna pass out if I don’t stop soon.”

It had been since a little after sundown since you’d been able to find a rest stop where you could get out and stretch your aching legs, with no apparent relief in sight; your phone had lost signal long ago, and the crisp paper map you’d picked up before leaving town was no help in finding any local landmarks. Even if you’d a gas station along this godforsaken long and winding road that felt like it stretched on forever, you got the impression that this wasn’t the best place to stop—you were in the middle of fucking nowhere, and even stepping a foot outside the car felt like it could be the last thing you did. What if there were feral vampires? Or a murderous family who’d chase you through the woods and skin you alive? Or worse yet—what if there was a kind-hearted but lonely local who hadn’t seen a soul for hours and wanted to engage in small talk about the weather when all you wanted to do was buy some chips and borrow the bathroom key?

“Okay, okay,” you whispered to yourself, exhaling slowly, “this isn’t a horror movie. Get it together.”

You inhaled deeply, promising yourself you could make it a while longer—you weren’t tired or sore at all, you clearly just needed a little fresh, woodsy air to revive you. You rolled down your window and let the cool night air rush against your face, hoping it would keep you awake along enough to reach civilization, or at least somewhere that had cell phone towers. You blinked hard to clear your vision, but the road seemed to grow longer and longer as you rounded every curve, the forest closing in on you from both sides, encroaching on the road and nipping at the edges of your fragile sanity. Between the loud rush of wind whipping through the car and your laser-like focus on the highway, you hadn’t even noticed the fact that your foot had slowly pressed further and further down onto the accelerator—you were too busy squinting at the darkened, narrowing road ahead of you to pay much attention to your speed.

Unfortunately for you, however, the cop car that suddenly appeared behind you had definitely been paying attention to how fast you’d been going, as blue and red lights began cycling and lighting up the inside of your car.

“Shit, shit, shit!” you exclaimed through gritted teeth as you slowed to a crawl and pulled off to the side of the road. You shut the engine off, your headlights still shining off into the black void in front of you, and let your hands rest on the steering wheel. This was the last thing you needed—a dark and winding road in the middle of nowhere, no signal on your phone, and now some backwoods cop who was probably wanting to play big and tough to scare the out-of-towner. Your heart raced in your chest, panic settling in, as you peered into your side mirror to watch the cop slowly get out of his car, lingering for a moment as he looked around before he started towards you.

As he got closer, you caught a glance at him—he had dark hair, and seemed a bit older than you expected. He looked tired, but in a charming sort of way, the way people look when their internal tuning fork has been struck just a few too many times and they’re on the verge of a breakdown. Something about him was unsettling but attractive, and as you tried to slow your breathing, you supposed, in a sick way, that there were worse-looking people to be pulled over by if you had to be pulled over at all. He approached your car, looking as though he were already exhausted of your interaction, and knocked on your window; you hurriedly rolled it down, fingers shaking.

“Evening, officer,” you croaked, a saccharine smile plastered across your weary, anxious face. “How can I help you?”

He glared at you a moment, his dark eyes intense and unnerving, before abruptly asking, “Do you know how fast you were going?”

You cringed, expecting perhaps a little bit of polite, small-town small-talk before getting right into the matter at hand. “Um, well, I dunno, I wanna say maybe… 60? 65?”

“Try 72,” he condescended. “Do you know what the speed limit is around here?”

“Ah well, I’m not too sure, it’s pretty dark and I didn’t see any signs.”

He chuckled derisively. “Probably because you blew right past the sign. And for the record, it’s 55.”

“Oh, I see.” You lowered your eyes, trying to consider your next move. “I can’t even believe I did that, officer. Look, I am so sorry. It won’t happen again.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re sorry?”

You offered him a grin as you placed your hands on the window frame—time to turn on your patented charm and hope for the best. “Yeah, I’m really sorry I even bothered you, officer—” you squinted at the nameplate on his chest pocket “—Officer Hackett. It’s just so late, and I’m really tired. I’m just trying to get upstate for a wedding, and it’s so dark—I was focused on the road, and clearly I wasn’t paying attention.”

“That’s an understatement,” he snipped. “You could have killed someone going that fast.”

“I mean, there’s not exactly anyone out here except for you and me, is there?” you asked suggestively.

He shifted, seeming a little surprised by your forwardness. “Well… there can be folks out here sometimes. Animals too.”

“I’ve had to avoid a few squirrels in my day, I think I’d probably survive.”

“These ain’t exactly squirrels,” he scoffed.

You looked up at him, wide-eyed. “What, are there bears?”

He looked off into the dark of the road ahead of you, seemingly distracted. “Yeah. Bears.”

“Sounds dangerous. Good thing you’re out here to protect drivers like me, officer,” you flirted. You saw a flush start to creep across his face, and his eyes darted around; it seemed like your charms were having an effect on him after all. “So… can I go?”

“W-what? No, of course not, you were speeding.”

“Aw, come on, officer. It’s late, I’ve got that wedding to get to tomorrow evening, and I’m sure you have a wife to get home to?”

“No, ma’am, I do not,” he huffed, seeming a little rattled.

You rested your chin in your hand as you looked up at him, blinking softly. “Oh. Then a girlfriend, perhaps?”

“No, I—look, what is your point?” he said, refusing to allow his eyes to meet yours for more than a moment.

“I’m just saying, I have somewhere else to be, and I’m just assuming a handsome gentleman like you must too, so I’ll agree to be more careful and we can call it good. What do you say, officer? Do a good citizen a favor and let me keep passing through the middle of… well, where are we exactly?”

“You’re in North Kill, ma’am.”

“North Kill? That’s certainly ominous, isn’t it?” you chuckled.

He sighed, finally returning his gaze to you, his dark eyes boring a hole right through you. He placed his wide hands on the window frame on either side of yours and leaned in, his voice low. “You think you’re being real cute, don’t you?”

“Maybe? You tell me officer,” you smirked, as you titled your head towards him.

“Okay, that’s enough,” he said, sounding rattled, as he took a few hasty steps backwards away from you. “Step out of the car, ma’am.” Your mouth hung open. “What? But I didn’t—” “I said step out of the car.” He was more forceful this time, a sternness in his tone that both frightened you and—strangely, secretly—excited you.

“Fine, fine, I’ll get out of the car.” You threw up your hands and flung the car door open. Your legs felt like columns of jelly as you planted them on the concrete; you told yourself it must be from the extended hours you’d been stuck in the driver’s seat and the adrenaline rush of being pulled over, but you knew, deep in the recesses of your mind, that it was the situation—the isolated setting, the way you seem to have flustered the handsome cop with your charms, the fact that he seemed to be reaching his breaking point with you and had suddenly turned from annoyed to authoritarian—that had an unexpected heat building between your trembling legs.

Officer Hackett looked you up and down as you stood next to your car. “Have you been drinking tonight?”

“What?” You shook your head. “No, of course not.”

He folded his arms across his chest, his stance widening as he looked at you like prey. “Then walk a straight line for me. Heel to toe.”

You composed yourself, took a breath, preparing to turn the charm back on; you were the one who had initiated flirtation, you weren’t going to allow him to have the upper hand. You smiled demurely, and gave a wink. “Why? You wanna watch me walk away, officer?”

He stared at you with half-lidded eyes. “Ma’am, just do as I say.”

“Yes, sir,” you said with a lilt. As you walked slowly in front of your car, the headlights illuminating you, you made a show of swinging your hips with each step, your thin cotton shorts (the ones that were perfect for sitting comfortably in your car but not much else) crept up your thighs, exposing more and more of your legs as you walked heel-to-toe as instructed.

“O-okay, I think that’s enough,” he choked, after you’d completed a few paces.

“Well?” you asked, hands on your hips, an eyebrow raised questioningly as you strutted back to your car. “Am I drunk or not?”

He looked you up and down and opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Finally he sputtered, “You think you’re hot stuff, don’t you?”

“I’ll let you be the judge of that, Officer Hackett.”

He smirked, running his tongue across his lower lip. “You know, I gotta say, for such a lovely thing, you’ve got a real smart mouth on you.”

“Do you say that to everyone you pull over or am I just special?”

The look on his face, the way his dark eyes seemed to turn coal-black, told you that you had finally pushed him as far as you possibly could. “You know what? Just… alright. You’re gonna be like that? Put your hands on the hood of the car and spread your legs.”

“A little forward, don’t you think?” you said mockingly, mouth agape, as you strolled towards the front of your car.

“Don’t make me tell you twice.” He walked behind you and placed a hand on your upper back; you gasped as he pushed you forward, forcing your open palms onto the still-warm steel of the hood of the car.

You stood there, utterly still, your heart drumming away in your ribcage, as you stared ahead into your empty SUV. You heard him pacing slowly behind you; it sounded like he was a few steps away. You expected him to say something, anything, but moments passed without him uttering a word. What was he doing? Was he just trying to unnerve you, get back at you for toying with him? Was he going to do something to you? You felt heat rising in your face, your ears beginning to burn, as you took one shaky breath after another while you waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The world grew noiseless around you, the sounds of your own pulse and the occasional rustle of leaves in the distance the only things you could hear; the night was deathly still and you felt like you were the only two people in the world left alive. If he was trying to frighten you, it was working.

Suddenly, you heard him approach you, his shoes grinding into the gravel, and you could feel the heat of his body bearing down on you. He stood next to you as he slid one hand—warm, firm, trembling just the slightest bit—up your bare arm, onto your shoulder, and onto the back of your neck. He gripped you slightly as he grew closer, his face hovering next to you yours, his lips nearly brushing your ear as he whispered, “Now what am I going to do with you?”

You inhaled sharply and stammered, tripping on your words as you tried to come up with an answer, your brain suddenly filled with a haze of arousal as your mind started to wander. He had you trapped here, alone and vulnerable, without another soul for miles it seemed—what could he do to you? “I—I don’t know, officer… w-what are you going to do with me?”

“This.” He loosened his grip on the back of your neck and let his hand glide down your spine as he positioned himself behind you. He wrapped one arm around your waist, pulling you firmly against him, as he placed his other hand on your hip and slowly, painstakingly, slid it around to the front of you, pausing as his palm landed at the apex of your thighs, his fingertips lightly brushing against your warmth, barely clothed in your thin shorts and panties. He pressed his fingers down, rubbing firm circles over your sensitive clit; you let out a groan as you felt a rush of heat between your thighs and a painful ache begin to build.

“Is this, um—is this standard procedure, officer?” you choked out as your whole body shivered at his touch.

“It is if I say it is.” He slid his hand down the front of your shorts and let his fingers snake their way into your panties. He ran two fingers along your slit, taking his time to explore every bit of your slick, swollen lips. “Goddamn it, you’re so wet. You wanted this, didn’t you?”

“I guess so,” you mumbled as your eyes fluttered shut.

“You guess so? Come on now. Shaking your ass at me while you walked, asking me if I had a wife, the way you cooed and blinked those pretty eyes at me… that feels like a little more than ‘I guess so.’” He parted your lips and pressed two fingers against your entrance, teasing your quivering hole as you whined, desperate for him to enter you. He finally obliged, sliding two thick fingers into your waiting cunt, dipping them in and out slowly.

“Fuck,” you hissed as you felt yourself clench around him, any resolve or sense of dignity you had in you quickly unraveling, as you leaned into the pleasure washing over you.

“Mmm, not just trying to get out of a ticket, then?” he teased as he twisted his hand and pressed his thumb on your swollen clit.

“N-no,” you whimpered as you started to grind your ass against him, rocking your hips in the same motions as his fingers.

“That’s right. You were working too hard to get me riled up just for that, huh?” He continued sliding his fingers in and out of you, pushing them in as far as he could, his hand quickly becoming drenched in your wetness. “I think you wanted me to take you like this,” he growled in your ear before he dragged his tongue up your neck, tasting the saltiness of your skin.

You couldn’t respond, your mind rendered empty as you felt your legs start to tense and your pussy quiver and quake around him. It was too much—you could only let out a string of sharp cries and moans as his fingers caressed your most tender spots, his thumb still dancing over your clit.

“Mm, finally got you speechless, huh? Too distracted to run that pretty little mouth.”

You had nothing left you could say except for a few exclamations of “Fuck!” as your legs started to wobble under you; he gripped you more firmly around your waist to hold you steady as he began making frantic motions over your clit and pushed his fingers as deep into you as he could, his knuckles pressing against your tender flesh. With a few last thrusts, you felt yourself clamp down around him as your whole body tensed and air was forced out of your lungs; you came with such a sudden jolt that you knew you would have crumbled to the ground if it weren’t for his arm wrapped around you. It was deliciously overwhelming, the feeling of him pressed against you as you cried out into the still air of the night, his fingers still deep within you as you spasmed and convulsed; you had never felt as defenseless and exposed as you did at this moment, your body quaking uncontrollably as you were detained by the side of the road, your bodies wreathed in the ambient light from your headlights and the sliver of moon hanging in the inky sky.

He slowly removed his hand from your shorts, his fingers deliberately dragging over your wet slit, the overstimulation causing a last few shocks to rocket through your body. Your mind was a mess of flurried thoughts—you wanted to ask him why, wanted to run, wanted to collapse, wanted to cry for more, wanted to lay down in the backseat of his squad car and beg him to fuck you in the cool stillness of the night. You opened your mouth but couldn’t sort through enough of your jumbled thoughts to come up with anything other than a garbled “Thank you” that hitched in your throat.  

“My pleasure, ma’am,” he rasped. He walked around to the side of you, leaning against the car hood and diligently wiping off his hand before tucking his handkerchief back into his pocket. “Think you can walk okay?”

“Uh-huh,” you replied as you gained your footing, dragging your feet closer together, leaning your weight on your palms.

“Then c’mere.” Before you could protest, he grabbed you by the wrist and yanked you around to the side of your car that faced away from the road; you stumbled as you trailed behind, your legs still unsteady and practically useless. He pulled you towards him as he leaned back against your car door, gripping your arm tighter and pulling your hand down to the front of his slacks; you could feel his erection straining against the stiff fabric.

“Feel what you did to me with all that teasing?” he groaned as he pressed himself into your palm. “I’d like you to do a little something for me now. Get on your knees.”

You wordlessly complied, dropping onto the ground below, the gravel and dirt immediately grinding into the tender flesh of your bare knees.

He breathed heavily as he reached down and stroked the top of your head, his fingers drifting down to stroke your cheek. “You’re so pretty like this,” he murmured as he unbuckled his belt, unzipped and unbuttoned his pants. “Now why don’t you put that smart mouth of yours to good use, hm?”

He slid himself out of the fly of his boxers, and you took a moment to admire his cock; it was thick, with a light upward curve, the head swollen and pink, waiting for your touch. You gripped him with one hand, teasing the tip with your tongue, causing him to quietly gasp. You traced your eager tongue down his length, winding it around the shaft, before taking him in your lips. He let out a sharp hiss as your warm mouth enveloped him, and his hands grasped at your hair to anchor himself. He swelled and pulsed as you slowly drew him in and out of your warm, wet mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you reached the tip; with every pull, his breaths grew quicker and more ragged, his groans deeper and longer. As you reached up and placed your palms on his thighs to steady yourself, it was clear that your teasing had stirred something deep within him—just the same as he had had done to you—and the shallow thrusts of his hips as you greedily took him deeper in your mouth told you it wouldn’t be long before his frenzy would reach a fever pitch.

He slid one hand down to the back of your head and held you in place as he pushed himself down your throat, forcing rivulets of spit to dribble out of your mouth and drip onto the dirt under you. He fucked your willing mouth in ragged, uneven strokes, as his moans grew even louder and his movements frantic. Before long, you felt his hips begin to shudder and the muscles of his thighs tense under your palms; he slowed down and gave a shivering inhale, and hot ropes of salty cum shot down your throat. You held him still in the warmth of your mouth, slowly lapping him with your tongue, pulling every last spasm you could out of him, taking every last drop of him that you could, before slowly, torturously, pulling away, releasing the head of his cock with a wet pop. He stood for a moment, panting, his breath harsh and ragged, as he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against your car.

You stayed still on your knees in front of him, suddenly reminded of the gravel and dirt pressing into your flesh now that you were without distraction, and winced a little.

“That was… that was something,” he finally uttered between unsteady breaths.

“I aim to please, officer,” you grinned as he shakily reassembled himself, sloppily tucking his shirt back into his pants and fumbling a bit with the buckle.

He retrieved his handkerchief from his pocket and leaned down to you, wiping the errant drool from your chin and the corner of your mouth before extending a hand to you to help you up from the ground. Your aching legs crumbled as you put weight on them, pitching you forward into him; you shared an awkward moment of unintended intimacy as your hands gripped his chest and your face came close to his, your lips almost touching, before you quickly gained your footing again and took a few hasty steps backwards. You felt a deep heat rising in your cheeks as you looked away from him; would it have been that awful to kiss him? you thought to yourself, before deeming yourself silly for even entertaining the thought at all.

You glanced down at your knees, covered in dirt, small pebbles ground into your inflamed flesh, pinpricks of blood starting to drip in spots. You saw the officer glancing down at them as well—he leaned down and brushed them off with his wide hands. You mustered an unsteady smile. “Good thing I’m wearing a long dress to the wedding. People might get ideas about what I’ve been up to recently.”

“Would they be wrong?” he asked, his voice still heavy with lust.

“I suppose not,” you shrugged. You crossed your arms, hugging yourself a little as the night air started to chill you to your car, goosebumps forming on your exposed limbs. You dug the toe of your sneaker into the dirt. “So, does this mean I’m free to go, officer?”

He chuckled softly. “I think I can let things slide, just this once. But don’t let me catch you speeding like that again around here.”

“Or what?” you taunted.

He walked back over to where you stood, and gripped your chin with his thumb and forefinger, tilting your head up to meet his gaze, his face hovering close, his lips nearly brushing yours as he spoke. “You don’t want to know.”

“If you say so,” you uttered, sucking in a sharp breath.

He ran his hands down your arms, giving your wrists a squeeze, before he started to walk away. He paused as he reached the rear of your car. “You know,” he said, placing one hand on the back of his neck, “there’s a motel not too far from here. Harbinger Motel. Just keep driving for about fifteen minutes and take the first road you see on the right. Follow it for a little while, and the motel will be on the left. Can’t miss it. Probably be better off staying the night there and getting back on the road in the morning.”

You leaned against the side of your car, one hand on your hip, head tilted to one side. “You know, I gotta say, it’s more than just a little creepy out here; I’d feel a lot safer if I had a member of law enforcement with me this evening. Care to escort me?”

A sudden redness spread across his face as he offered you a bashful grin before turning away. “Have a good night, ma’am. Stay safe.”

“You too, officer.”

You climbed back into your car and turned the key, the familiar purr of the engine and the vibration under your feet grounding you, returning you back to reality. You looked in your rearview mirror, half-expecting to see nothing but darkness, wondering in your haze if everything had just been some fever dream and you were really just pulled off into a ditch, passed out from the hours of driving. Instead, the weakened legs, the wetness between your thighs, and sore jaw were confirmed as real when you saw the patrol vehicle still parked behind you, its lights dimmed, Officer Hackett standing by his open car door. You offered a wave out your window as you carefully drove off back into the night, still struggling to make out the road ahead and hoping you wouldn’t miss your turn.

You continued on the road as instructed, keeping your eyes as wide as you could, making sure you didn’t overlook the hotel; you were exhausted, your head empty, your only thoughts being how much you couldn’t wait to wash the dirt off your sore knees and collapse into bed. As you focused your eyes on the cracked grey pavement before you, you wondered if you’d ever be able to tell anyone about the night’s events, if anyone would ever believe something as cliché as the corrupt cop taking advantage of the willing out-of-towner on the side of a desolate road in the middle of nowhere; if it weren’t for the fact you could almost still feel his wide fingers inside you, still taste his cock on your tongue, still hear his low, quiet groans echoing in your ears, you wouldn’t even believe it yourself.

You sighed with relief as you finally saw the Harbinger Motel up ahead, its looming, glowing red sign hard to miss even in the foggy night. As you approached, you glanced up into your rearview mirror, and just for a moment, you could’ve sworn you saw the glint of a car following behind you in the blackness.

Louisiana’s summer nights

Kinda smutty but: Imagine the Sinclairs in a craze for you…

Vincent coming up behind you and wrapping his string arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck, kissing your skin, loving you. He whimpers lightly until you look at him. He stops and kisses your lips, holding you closer and tighter until you melt away. He spins you around and lifts you up; you weigh nothing him. He kisses until you both pull away breathless. You hold his face and rests against his forehead, hanging your arms over his shoulders as he carries you to his bed. Vincent lays you down and treats you like royalty, taking everything nice and slow, rough and tender. He loves you so much that he doesn’t know what to do sometimes besides being near you.

Lester lifting you up to sit on his tailgate so he could rest his head in your chest, hands running up and down your thighs before warping you in a warm embrace. Your hands taking his hat off so you can play with his flatten curls while his kisses linger down your jaw over your neck. He just wants you in his arms and litter you with so much kisses while mumbling “I love you” the whole time. Then he cups your cheeks and kisses you deeply and passionately, bruising your lips until they’re numb. His hands fall over your breast and massages you, whispering your name like a prayer, and he praises you like you’re his god. He’s so much in love with you that it drives him over the edge sometimes.

Bo having a bad day and just sees you coming to the shop with a jug of sweet peach ice tea. Him just meeting you in front of the shop to lift you up by your legs and smash his lips against yours. He wants you more and more, deeper and deeper the pit in his chest grows for you. He smiled against your lips and sits you on the front counter, kissing your neck, nipping at your skin, repeating “mine; all mine” until he’s so drunk off your scent he can’t stop staring at you, and his hands are so focused on rubbing your arms, thighs, neck. His lost eyes closing as he leans into your hands, kissing the palms and starts praising you for every little thing you do. “Le’me worship you, darlin’,” he’ll drawl, his southern voice so deep and heavy as he kisses you again. “Need you, sweetheart. Need ya bad.” And he lifts you up again only to carry you to a tailgate in the shop, lowering you down, kissing and marking you all over because he wants more and more and more of you. Bo loves you so much that he would burn for you, kill for you, die for you, hunt for you— everything he does, he’ll do it for you until you tell him to stop.

Just like a muse to me, you are a mystery ♪

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A screencap redraw of Hilda Furacão (1998) , please do not repost ♥

THE BOYS 4x07 The Insider

When he makes you laugh during sex and then you feel his hands tighten on your hips and his jaw clenches, muttering a stiff “ease up,” while he tries to stop himself from cumming early because “if you keep squeezing my cock like that I’ll cum.”

Five Times Vigilante Definitely Does Not Have Feelings (and the One Time He Does)

Characters:  Adrian Chase/Vigilante x f!reader

CW:  Crude language; yearning.

Word Count:  3982

Adrian Chase will tell anyone:  he doesn’t have emotions like people do.  He doesn’t feel sad or angry or embarrassed.  When Peacemaker gave him the nickname “Thimble,” he certainly didn’t cry.  When Peacemaker was sent to prison, he certainly didn’t feel lonely.  

Not having emotions is what makes him a more evolved human.

And yet, when ARGUS springs Peacemaker and sets up a black ops outfit in Evergreen, Adrian finds himself toeing the line of feelings.  He doesn’t have emotions like people do, but he comes awfully close a handful of times…until he crosses the line entirely.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Vulnerable

As the Vigilante, Adrian gets hurt all the time.  He’s become proficient at stitching up his own wounds.  His body is littered with the scars of his own handiwork.

But when Goff tortures him for information, and when the ARGUS team comes to his and Peacemaker’s rescue, he finds himself missing half of a pinkie toe.  It’s the most important toe on the human body, and he’ll probably never walk again…and no one seems to care.

Except for you.  In the van as they return to headquarters, you sit across from him, watching him as he studies his mangled foot.  You murmur something that sounds sympathetic, but he barely hears it over Peacemaker laughing at him.

At headquarters, you look at him and jerk your head in the direction of the back office.

“I can stitch you up, if you want,” you offer. 

He starts to shake his head, but the mean blonde woman—Harcourt, her name is—makes an offhand comment about your superior patch-up abilities, so he accepts your help.  He limps painfully behind you, follows you into a room that has been converted into a rough sort of exam room and budget clinic.

“Hop up on the table,” you tell him, and even though he doesn’t trust you—or any of your team—he does as you say.  It’s clumsy.  He hurts in a hundred different places:  his half-amputated toe, his electrocuted crotch, all the scrapes and bruises from the fight with Cobra Kai. 

“I won’t take off my mask,” he warns you.  “I take my secret identity very seriously.  If you saw my face, I’d have to kill you.”

“Duly noted,” you reply dryly.  “But I only need to see your foot.”

He pulls off his boot and regards his mangled half-pinkie toe sadly.  You pull on a pair of latex gloves and turn on a bright lamp, angling it at his bare foot.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” you say as you prod the wound gently.  “In fact, you really didn’t lose anything but a couple layers of skin.”

“The blade was as dull as fuck,” he replies. 

You wheel your stool over to a cabinet, then pull out some supplies:  needle and thread, disinfectant, gauze and tape.  Then you wheel back over to him and set to work.

The mean blonde woman was right—you’re quick, efficient.  He looks down at your bent head as you stitch him up, and he sees that your needlework is better than his own.  He doubts he’ll even have much of a scar once it heals.

But it’s the strange feeling that creeps over him:  makes his vision waver, makes him feel a little light-headed.  Your hands are deft but also gentle.  Adrian can’t remember ever being touched so gently.  Maybe when he was really small.  Maybe his mom was gentle like that when he was so small that he can’t remember it now.  It makes him break out in goosebumps.  He shudders at the touch of your warm hand bracing his foot, and you misunderstand the involuntary gesture.

“Almost done,” you murmur, and a moment later you tie off the last stitch and snip the thread.  You wrap his toe in gauze, pat his knee softly in a reassuring way.  Then you straighten up and ask if there’s any other injuries he needs patched up.

“Goff electrocuted me,” he blurts out.  “With a car battery.”

You look at him, level, but the corner of your mouth quirks in a near-smile.  “You want me to look at that for you?”

“Oh, no.  No.  No, I just wanted to mention it.  I’m not asking you to look at it.”  He’s grateful for the mask; he can feel his face heating up at the idea of taking off his suit in front of you, and the sudden flush confuses him.  Irritates him.  Something about the thought of being exposed makes his stomach churn in a way he doesn’t understand.

You hum thoughtfully, then turn back to the cabinet of supplies.  You rummage around, then pull out a small white tube that you hand him.

“Antibiotic gel for cuts and burns,” you say.   “You can put a cool cloth on…well, any burns you may have.  If there’s blistering, don’t pop them.”

“Okay.”

“And, you know…if you have any lingering side effects of being electrocuted, you should see a specialist.”

Vigilante reaches down and pulls his boot back on, but already his toe feels better.  “What sort of side effects?” he asks.

He looks up at you in time to see that same half-smile.  You peel off your gloves, toss them in the trash.  

“I can imagine where you were electrocuted,” you reply.  “So if those parts don’t typically work the way you’re used to, see a real doctor.”

Adrian Chase is not good at nuance or subtlety.  “Huh?”

You blink at him before you say, “if you can’t get or maintain an erection, see a urologist.”

“Oh.”  He blinks too, behind his visor.  “Okay.”

You turn to leave the room but then glance over your shoulder before you do.  “Thanks for your help tonight,” you say.  “The mission was a success because of you.”

Neither Vigilante nor Adrian Chase ever get any thanks.  He flushes even hotter under his mask, and he grumbles in reply, uncomfortable to be seen, to be recognized for the first time.

To be vulnerable.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Embarrassed

The next afternoon, he’s at Peacemaker’s trailer, helping him clean up from when the police tossed the place.  They are blasting Guns and Roses, drinking beer…it’s like the old days, almost.

A knock at the door then, and Adrian has only a second to pull on his mask before you stroll in.

“Hey, Chris.  Vigilante.”  You nod in greeting, then reach into your bag to pull out a thick manila folder.  You hand it to Peacemaker.

“Murn wanted me to bring this by.  It’s the latest intel we got from Goff’s place.”  

You stand there as Chris takes the folder and sinks down onto his couch, already paging through the information.  Vigilante stands there too, awkward, so he crosses his arms to keep from fidgeting.  There’s a long stretch of silence once the Guns and Roses record ends, and Vigilante struggles with silence.

“I got hard last night,” he tells you.  “And this morning too.”

“Dude, what the fuck?” Peacemaker sputters.  “She doesn’t want to hear that!”

“She mentioned it last night!”

Peacemaker scoffs, twists his face into an expression of disbelief.  “Yeah, I’m sure she mentioned your dick last night.  Sure.  Okay.  Fantasize much?”

“She did!”

“You seriously need to get laid, dude.  Stop making shit up.”

“He’s not lying,” you tell Peacemaker with a sheepish shrug.  “Though I mentioned it in the context of his injuries and not…some other context.”

“See?”  Vigilante says, and Peacemaker rolls his eyes, makes a jacking-off motion with his hand.

You don’t linger.  You beat a hasty retreat, waving over your shoulder as you leave the trailer, and Peacemaker gives him more hell—calls him weird, calls him annoying.

“No wonder you’ve never had a real girlfriend, dude,” he says as he turns back to his folder of intel.  “You say the creepiest shit the minute a cute girl is around.”

Vigilante doesn’t think about it much more until later.  That night, in bed, he lies awake for far longer than he usually does.  He replays that moment, tries to understand why he just blurted that out.  

He wonders if you would have stayed at the trailer longer if he hadn’t been creepy.  His face burns in the darkness of his bedroom, and his stomach twists painfully as he replays the moment over and over.  He replays his stupid blurting out about his dick, and he has no idea what it means.  He never obsesses over his stupid mouth like this.

If he had feelings like other people, he’d recognize the emotion as embarrassment.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Despondent (and Comforted)

Adrian gets himself arrested on purpose.  It’s the best way he can help Chris:  get arrested, get booked into the same prison as Chris’ racist supervillain father, then kill said racist supervillain father.

Easy enough.  It’d set Chris free and make his life so much better.  Allow him to move forward and not be bogged down, like Adebayo said.

Adrian fails.  He only manages to make things worse—clues Auggie into his plan accidentally, possibly points law enforcement in Chris’ direction.  So Adrian doesn’t just fail—he fails miserably.

He’s released that night.  He’s surprised at first, but as he changes back into his clothes and collects his personal effects from the guards, he realizes that ARGUS has its sticky fingers in all sorts of things and probably sprung him with just a few keystrokes.

When he leaves the prison, you’re sitting out front in your car.  You lower the passenger window and call out to him.

“C’mon,” you say.  “Harcourt sent me to take you home.”

He’s too upset to even feel bad about his cover being blown.  He climbs into the car.

“I think I made things worse,” he says, and he tries not to cry.  He only wanted to help his best friend (even if he’s not Peacemaker’s best friend).  Somehow he messed up, and it could ruin everything.  

“Okay,” you reply softly.  “It’s okay.”

You drive him home.  He doesn’t give you his address, but you know it—another screw-up, he thinks, getting tangled up with people who easily cracked his secret identity.  You know his name, his face, where he lives.  Some instrument of vengeance he is.  You probably even recognize him from his job at Fennel Fields.

Outside of his apartment, you park, then turn to face him.  In the half-light from the streetlamps, he can just make out your soft smile.

“This entire ops is nothing but mistakes,” you tell him.  “And yet, we’re doing okay.  We’ll figure out how to handle Auggie Smith.  Don’t worry about it.”

He nods, and something about the barest bit of comfort—paired with your smile—makes him turn to face you too.  

“I’m Adrian,” he says, even though you know his name.

Your smile broadens and you say your name, even though he knows it.  You hold out your hand and after a beat he takes it.

“Good to finally meet you, Adrian,” you reply as you shake hands.  

For whatever reason, as low as he feels, he falls asleep that night with a weird lightness in his chest—because he doesn’t dwell on his failure at the prison.  

Instead, he falls asleep with the memory of your smile, your kind words.  Your warm hand in his.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Protective

The attack on Goff’s house yielded some leads, and the team travels three hours away to take out a nest of Butterflies.  Everyone is exhausted, filthy, and bruised up.  

It’s in the van—you sitting beside Adrian—when you start to nod off.  He catches it the first few times, the way your head dips forward, the way you jerk back awake.  It’s cute, the way you fight sleep, and then it happens.

You fall asleep and you don’t wake up.  Your head drifts towards him, then settles against his shoulder.

Adrian freezes.  

He and Peacemaker—they used to go out together, looking for crimes or bitches or both.  He’s no virgin.  He fucks.  He’s no stranger to touch, and he’s certainly no stranger to women.  And yet…this feels different.  It feels new.

Peacemaker notices.  “You got a new girlfriend, dude,” he points out with a laugh.

Harcourt rolls her eyes at the teasing.  “Leave her alone.  She puts in way more hours than you, asshole.”

“I put in plenty of hours,” he replies, defensive.  “It takes a lot of time to maintain this impressive physique.  Do you know how long I work on my small muscle groups alone?”

Harcourt rolls her eyes again, then returns her attention to her phone.  Peacemaker turns back to where Adrian sits, rigid, as you sleep against him.

“If you get hard, just don’t tell her about it,” he advises the younger man.  “You’ll creep her out again.”

It’s strange, the feeling of your head against him.  It’s not sexy at all, obviously—in fact, it’s a little uncomfortable.  He doesn’t want to move you, doesn’t want to jostle you and wake you up.  Harcourt said you’re tired, and you took a hell of a beating as you fought the Butterflies.  

Adrian has always approached his work as Vigilante from a perspective of vengeance, not protection, so the feeling is strange:  how he wants to let you sleep, how he wants to protect your sleep.  How he wants to make you comfortable.

A quiet falls over the team; the swaying of the van lulls everyone into comfortable silence.  Adrian breathes in carefully through his nose, then shifts his body.  Slowly, carefully.  He leans away from you, allows you to lie against him more.  He changes the angle enough that he can get his arm out from where it’s trapped between your body and his.  He shifts again, gets his arm around you.  Gently moves you—changes it from your head awkwardly pressed against his hard molded shoulder pad to your head tucked against his chest.

You wake, a little, as he moves you.  You blink up at him sleepily, say his name—Adrian, not Vigilante or Vig or V—and your voice is husky with exhaustion.  There’s a questioning lilt to how you say his name, so he shakes his head softly.

“Go ahead and rest,” he says, quiet.  “Everything’s fine.”

You nod, then settle back against him.  It takes only a moment until he feels your breathing slow down, deepen.  He feels your body go heavy and lax against him.  Tucked against his chest, his arm holding you against him, he can smell you, feel how warm you are.  If he moves his head just a little, he can press his cheek against the top of your head.

Go ahead and rest, he thinks.  Everything’s fine.  I’ll keep you safe.

Vigilante has always been an instrument of vengeance, but this is the first time he’s felt protective of anyone.

The Time Vigilante Definitely Does Not Feel Fear

The 11th Street Kids have one chance to eradicate the Butterflies forever:  if they can kill their only food source, the so-called cow, they will eventually all die off.  When they make their final assault on the farm, the team splits up:  Adebayo and Economos stay back, while the warriors—Peacemaker, Vigilante, Harcourt, and you—charge into action.

Whether the cow is killed or not, Adrian doesn’t find out until after the battle is over.  He fights off the onslaught of Butterflies, but for the first time, his attention isn’t entirely on his own fight.

His attention is on you, now, too.  

He manages to keep you in his sightline for the beginning of the fight.  He sees you, admires the sight of you when you’re in your berserker mode:  furious and deadly, well-fitted black suit, guns flashing as you empty clip after clip into the skulls of the Butterflies.  

Then he loses sight of you. 

His chest clenches in an unfamiliar tension, and when he finally catches sight of you again, that tight-chest feeling cedes to something else, something worse:  an ice-cold shard of fear that lances through him, settles in his gut where it sits like a stone.

When he finally catches sight of you, it’s the exact moment you are shot by a Butterfly.

One shot hits your shoulder, spins you around.

Another shot hits you square in the chest, makes you stagger backwards as the force is absorbed by your vest.

The final shot hits you low in the belly, and Adrian (who has studied your gear closely) knows you have little protection there.  The icy fear blooms in him, fills up every bit of him until it feels like it’s in his veins.

He screams your name.  He barely even feels the bullet that hits him (“oh, shoot” he mutters, and tosses a knife behind him to kill his own attacker), but then he stumbles and falls, and he loses consciousness.

He wakes a moment later.  He has no idea how much time has passed, but he manages to get to his hands and knees, then to his feet.  He makes his way to where you fell and he finds you.  

It’s bad.  It’s so bad that the icy fear turns acidic in his veins, makes him burn with fear.  With terror.  You gaze up at him but you don’t seem to see him, and each breath makes a fresh pulse of blood trickle from your mouth.

Adrian has never been very good at social situations.  He never knows the right thing to say and if he does, he doesn’t know the right time to say it.  He wishes these things came more easily to him; if it were Chris here right now instead of him, Chris would know the right thing to say.  He’d know how to keep you awake, how to give you comfort.

All Adrian can offer is what you told him the night he got out of prison, when you drove him home.  Now, as you lie under the night sky, dying in front of him, as he presses one hand against the worst wound to try and staunch the bleeding, he repeats your words back to him.

“It’s okay,” he says, and he says it over and over and hopes you believe it.  “It’s okay.  It’s okay.  It’s okay.”

The Time Vigilante Definitely Feels Love

You have no memory of the fight at the farm.  The last thing you remember is the drive there, but everything after is a blank.  Adebayo stops by when you finally wake up and fills you in on the salient details.  

She tells you how Vigilante—who was also shot, who had been blown up earlier in the day—carried you to safety.  How he kept you from bleeding out, how he held your very life in his hands and kept you from dying.  How hospital security had to separate him from you, once you were laid out on the gurney and being wheeled into surgery.

How he still tried to fight to stay by your side, and how he only failed because of his own injuries and blood loss.

“That man is stupid crazy about you,” Adebayo chuckles with a shake of her head.  “I don’t even think he’s really a psychopath.”

You chuckle with her, wince when the action pulls at the thousand stitches and staples that are keeping you held together.  “He’s not bad, right?”

“We’re literally the Island of Misfit toys,” she replies.  “But yeah, he’s alright.”

-----

Adrian is hospitalized too, and once he’s healed up to a point, he starts sneaking into your room to visit.  It’s not really sneaking—every time he undoes his IV and heart monitor, it sends the nurses into a panic—but after Adebayo’s press conference revealing the existence of Task Force X, the hospital staff is pretty tolerant of his harmless shenanigans. 

He helped ward off an alien invasion, after all.  You both did.

You have to agree with Adebayo.  You’ve never quite believed that Adrian is a psychopath or a sociopath or whatever.  You certainly never believed him when he said he didn’t have feelings or emotions.  The guy is nothing but a walking ball of emotions:  obvious love for his friends, a yearning to belong, a sweet desire to be liked and included.  Sure, he kills without compunction, but he seems to love in equal measure, even if he doesn’t believe he does.

When he visits you, he doesn’t talk about feelings.  He chatters endlessly about his and Peacemaker’s exploits—criminals they’ve busted, ways they’ve destroyed old appliances in the woods behind Peacemaker’s trailer.  He talks about how it was when Peacemaker was in prison, how he kept calling and leaving voicemails to make it seem like everything was normal.  He talks about his job at Fennel Fields, all the terrible customer service stories he has.

He discharges himself against the advice of the doctors (he’s healed enough, he tells you), and you think he’ll stop visiting, but he doesn’t.  He visits every day still, and when you start physical therapy to build up the muscle tone and endurance you’ve lost, he sits in a nearby chair, watching you.  Cheering you on.

Adebayo wasn’t wrong.  You know Adrian has feelings for you.  You’re more socially adept than him, and you’ve had relationships before.  You’ve had crushes and been the object of them.  You guessed his infatuation early on, and you can guess that it’s only grown for him since then.

It probably confuses him, you guess.  You know what love feels like.  What a crush feels like.  All that feeling, in so many places:  the fluttery stomach, the pounding heart, the thoughts that just circle ‘round and ‘round about a single person.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t have similar feelings for him.  He’s easy on the eyes, sure—but he’s earnest and sweet, a brutal killer with a heart of gold.

You can also guess that Adrian might never make a move.  This has to be unfamiliar territory for him.  You know he’s no virgin (he’s chattered endlessly about his and Peacemaker’s exhaustive threesomes too), but he seems to have no relationship experience.

But your entire short working relationship with him has been give and take.  You stitched him up, comforted him when he was feeling low after his failed attempt to kill Auggie Smith.  He let you rest against him, held you gently as you slept after a mission.  He saved your life, kept you from bleeding out.

Give and take.  The best kind of relationship, in your opinion.

“Hey, Adrian,” you say one afternoon after PT.  You’re exhausted and sore, but you’re quickly approaching your own discharge.  You are healing up nicely.  You have things to look forward to.

“What’s up?” he asks, and he bounces over to your bedside like a Golden Retriever puppy, eager.

“Doctor says I’m good to go in a few days.”

“That’s great!”  His face breaks open in a wide grin that transforms him from nerdy-handsome to downright gorgeous.  “That’s good news!”

You swallow, push down the nerves that flare up.  “I thought maybe we could celebrate.”

“Yeah!”  He grins at you.  “I can call Chris—”

“I thought maybe just me and you,” you cut in, clarifying.  “Just this time.  Maybe we include Chris some other time.”

“Oh.”  The smile falls from his face, and he looks at you.  His brows are knit in confusion.  

No sense in backtracking now.  “Like a date.  Would you like to go on a date with me?”

“Oh.”  A beat.  “With me?  Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

What you’re asking him finally sinks in—a beat longer than it might with someone else, but that’s just part of Adrian’s charm.  The smile returns to his face, brighter and wider than before.

“Yeah,” he replies.  “Hell yeah, dude.  I’d love that.”

guard dog [b.heelshire]

summary: your ex-boyfriend tries to take you away from brahms. chaos ensues.

fandom: horror (the boy - 2016)

pairing: brahms heelshire x fem!reader

word count: 1.3k

warnings: this is VERY DARK, please proceed with caution. death, murder, very very heavy descriptions of stabbing and blood, dark!reader, brief mentions of kidnapping, just all the gory stuff

note: i am so excited to post this omg i know it’ll probably flop but i had SO MUCH FUN writing it!!! pls let me know if u like it and as always, likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated.

“Brahms…” you call, a soft and playful lilt in your voice as you walk across the quiet mansion; you presume that Brahms is either asleep or lurking within the walls until a shuffle followed by a gurgle comes from the direction of the kitchen. A shiver runs down your spine as you follow the noise. You call out again, louder this time.

“Brahms.”

He heaves a deep, ragged breath as you enter the kitchen and you gasp softly. In front of you stands Brahms, covered in a thin sheen of blood and sweat, clutching a massive bread knife and looming over a barely recognisable corpse. The porcelain mask covers his features but you can imagine his face contorted with rage, thick brows furrowed and teeth bared in a snarl. The flush that creeps down his neck and into his chest and ears tells you exactly how he’s feeling without you exchanging a single word. You glance down at the dead body, your eyes widening slightly. You’re not surprised, per-se, but rather touched that he’d go to these lengths for you. Before you met Brahms, you were squeamish, shying away from anything remotely gruesome. But living here with him… you’ve had to adapt.

“Is that Derek?”

Derek. Your piece of shit, toxic ex-boyfriend who had an obsession with you so strong he followed you out into the middle of the English countryside to try and drag you back into his life, even if you were kicking and screaming the whole way.

“Don’t be mad,” Brahms chokes, “He was trying to take you away from me. I don’t want you to go…” He stumbles into your arms, his massive frame engulfing you. The blood sticks to you but you press yourself into him regardless, prying the knife from his grip gently.

“I’m not mad,” you murmur, “You were just protecting me, sweet boy.” He nods frantically, his body crumpling. Cooing reassurances, you lower him to the kitchen floor, raking your fingers through his dark curls. He whimpers, the coldness of the mask seeping into your skin and making you shiver. Poor thing; he’d do anything to protect you, including die. He’s really not as scary as he looks - not to you anyway. His cardigan is doused in blood but he refuses to let you peel it from his body. Sighing, you sit against the cabinet, cupping his jaw. He melts into your touch, that high-pitched, childlike voice forcing its way out of him.

“Kiss?”

You smile, leaning forward until your nose presses against the cool hardness of the mask. You lock your lips with the ceramic, eyes fluttering closed. When he whines petulantly, you cock your head, feigning innocence.

“Oh, my boy wants a real kiss?” you ask, sticky hands flying to cover your mouth in over exaggerated shock.

“Please.”

Laughing, you push the mask up just enough to expose his plump lips and press your own to them; he lets out a little grunt, the dark curls sprouting from his chest tickling your exposed portions of skin. You stroke the pebbled flesh adorning his neck and face almost reverently, nipping at the sweet spot under his ear until he’s keening.

“There y’are,” you praise, pecking him one last time before sliding the mask back into place. “Such good manners.”

“Been practicing,” he mumbles, resting his forehead on your shoulder. This new side of him is such a stark contrast from his usual petulant - and at times, bratty - countenance.

Just as he begins to settle against you, there’s a thump and a crash from the front door and Henry, Derek’s best friend, hurtles into the kitchen. Brahms growls, springing up from the floor and swiping the enormous knife from where you left it on the counter.

“Brahms, wait!” You manage to keep a firm grasp on his blood soaked cardigan, drawing him back into you. He’s holding back significantly - he’s never so easy to restrain. Not that it’s your intention to hold him back; you know Henry has to die now, you just want to enjoy toying with him a little first. You fix your gaze on Henry.

“You’re an idiot for coming here. Even more stupid than I thought.”

Henry is stock still, eyes wide as saucers and glued to Derek’s disfigured corpse.

“What did you do to him, you bitch?” he seethes, although his voice wavers and cracks. His face is pallid, brows drawn together and he stifles a shake in his hands to mask his obvious terror. You click your tongue.

“You thought it’d be easy to come all the way out here to kidnap me? Take me back?” you ask, fists clenched at your sides. Derek and his little posse did always have a habit of underestimating you. “You thought he’d let you?” you scoff incredulously, cocking your head towards Brahms. His breaths are heaving and he shakes with a rage you can only begin to imagine the extent of. You giggle at how Brahms must look to Henry. How both of you must look. Covered in blood - Derek’s blood - deep, sticky and crimson, sharp and prominent against Brahms’ pale skin, the wicked glint of the knife taunting Henry. Goading him. Begging him to fight back just so it can plunge into him, slash away until he’s as deformed as his best friend.

“Why are you laughing?” Henry snaps, “Stop that! I’m not scared of your guard dog!”

You almost retch you’re laughing so hard, clutching Brahms’ bicep as tears spill from beneath your waterline and down your cheeks. The choked sounds pouring from your lips are weak and strained as you double over, wheezing. Brahms’ hands grasp under your armpits, lifting you back up to face him. He strokes your hair from your face frantically, nimble thumbs pushing the tears and creases from your cheeks.

“What is it?” Brahms murmurs, shoulders hunched to lower him to your height. The knife dangles from his fingers, just inches from your face, yet you don’t even flinch.

“I-I’m okay,” you hiccup, swaying slightly against his firm grasp. You give yourself a moment to breathe and compose yourself before you’re turning back to Henry and whispering in Brahms’ ear. “We can’t let him leave, baby.”

Brahms is on him before he can even blink; Henry thrashes underneath his weight, grunting with the fruitless effort of trying to escape.

“Don’t fight it,” you snicker, crouching until your nose touches Henry’s and you’re sharing breaths, “It’ll only make it worse.” Pinching his cheek and smearing claret across the smooth skin, you inhale sharply, tracing his lips with the very tip of your finger. “This is the last time you try to take advantage of me.”

The knife sinks into his chest with a slick squelch. Henry screams; Brahms jerks his arm rapidly, shaking him like a rabid dog until he goes slack. Again and again and again he rears back and buries the blade into him. Blood spatters onto the white walls, the linoleum floor, every visible surface is blemished with crimson. Brahms attacks him with an inhuman quality, a deep roar erupting from his chest every time he thinks about these men taking you away from him.

“She’s mine!” he screams.

When Henry is no longer recognisable, limp and far past dead, you pry him away.

“Shh, shh. I’m yours. I’m here. We’re safe, it’s just us.” you soothe, climbing into his lap. “I have you.” His arms squeeze your waist as he holds you flush to him, almost burrowing his way into your skin. You wrap your arms around his neck, kissing the slick red skin of his neck and collarbones; there’s so much blood. Is it bad that it turns you on a little? “You did so well. You protected me.”

“You’re mine.” He accentuates the statement with a sharp tug of your body, dropping the knife with a clatter and snaking his drenched arms beneath your hoodie.

“I’m yours. I’m all yours.” You kiss his head, nestling closer to him. “Yours.”

Spit In My Face 4

— PAIRING: Sugar Daddy!Patrick Bateman x Fem!Reader

— SUMMARY: New York Fashion Week is coming up, and you are going to visit your first fashion show in the company of Patrick Bateman himself. The chain of events that happen there will reveal a new side of Mr. Bateman that you never knew he had.

— CONTAINS: Angst, implications of self harm & panic attacks, (almost) character death (drowning), hurt/comfort, smut, oral (reader receiving), fingering, nipple play, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, body worship, Daddy kink, Praise kink, pet names, dirty talk, Service!Dom!Patrick Bateman himself.

— WORDS: 4.5k

— SONG REC: ThxSoMch - Spit In My Face🖤

— A/N: I really didn't plan this mini-series to be that long, so I promise the next chapter will be the last. Please enjoy!🥰

— LINKS: [PART 3] [MASTERLIST] [SERIES MASTERLIST] [buy me a coffee]💓

There was something special about New York at night, when millions of lights were shining like diamonds, reflecting on the water of the Hudson River and taking your breath away with the feeling of being so small in such a huge city, where the numerous soaring skyscrapers were almost touching the sky.

Tiredly, you closed your eyes, sighed, and leaned on the armrest of the car door, watching the scenery change behind the window. Patrick listened to the music, as he always did, his hands stroking your knee from time to time, but you could hardly feel it, since you were completely overwhelmed by emotions, feelings and thoughts. It was hard to believe that even after all that had happened, you still let him take you home, knowing damn well that he wouldn't just stay in the cab when it stopped at your place. 

Just as you entered your apartment and turned on the lights, you heard his slightly nervous chuckle and little comment.

“Mmm, it's pretty clean here.”

His words almost made you choke. “Did you really think that my place would look like a dump just because I don't live in Manhattan?”

“I didn't mean that.” Bateman murmured behind you, following you carefully down the hall. “Where can I put my coat?”

“Why do you ask? I don't remember inviting you here,” You took off your coat and put it on the rack next to him. “Aren't you afraid your coat will stink  of poverty?”

Patrick couldn't help but chuckle in a husky voice. “You're funny, Cupcake.”

And why did you trust this man at all? What was so special about him?

You didn't say anything, only a thin smile ran over your tired face as you turned around and saw him putting his coat over yours. After that, you continued to walk to your small kitchen, and as soon as you reached the table next to the window, your eyes began to search for something.

“Did you lose something?” He asked, leaning against the wall and hiding his hands in his pockets.

“N-no,” you stammered, as if he had caught you doing something bad. God, he was embarrassing you in your own apartment! “Just … It's been a while since I've had guests.”

Patrick hummed something incoherently and crossed his arms over his broad chest, then moved lazily to the kitchen counter when something caught his eye while you were busy gathering all the stuff on the kitchen table — including some books and various papers from work.

With undisguised interest, Bateman picked up the medicine to take a closer look at its name. “Don't you know these things can cause addiction?”

“What?” You turned to see him examining your sedatives.

“How long have you been taking them?” He asked again, his perfect eyebrows knitted together now.

You sighed tiredly and walked over to him, holding out your hand. “Not too long. Now give it to me, please.”

“I can bring you much better medication than this, since it obviously doesn't work,” he stated in a stern voice, without looking at you. “Because the panic attacks are still kicking your pretty ass.”

His words made your jaw clench, but you didn't even try to snatch the medication from him, instead you just let out a soft groan of annoyance, crossed your arms and rolled your eyes.

“That's very kind of you, but I have to decline your offer.” You replied, watching him shake his head in irritation. “Besides, you can only get those pills with a doctor's prescription.”

Patrick just shrugged and put the pills back on the kitchen counter.

“That's not a problem,” he quickly straightened his red tie before stepping closer to you. “I have one of the best therapists in the city.”

“Uh-huh, and the pharmacy you go to is probably one of the best, too?”

He grinned. “Sure, I usually get my meds from the one on Broadway.”

“Good for you.”

You started to saunter away from him, but his hands caught you faster than you could react. The next thing you knew, Bateman was holding you tightly against his tall, broad frame, looking down at you with obvious concern.

“Cupcake,” he murmured in a sweet voice, tracing a finger along your cheek. “I just want to help.”

Damn, this man only had to touch you a little bit and you were already lost in him. 

“Patrick, you don't have to. I—” You didn't have a chance to finish your sentence because your lips were sealed by his. 

Completely defenseless and vulnerable — that was how you felt right now, and it seemed as if he could feel it as the kiss grew deeper and more intense with each passing moment. Cautiously, you rested your hands on his shoulders before sliding them down to the lapels of his suit, fumbling with the soft material and feeling the ground disappearing beneath your feet.

It was already too much.

Only when you were both breathless did Patrick decide to break the kiss, but his arms were still wrapped around your waist, as if he was afraid you would disappear like a mirage. 

“You were involved in all this because of me," he paused and leaned down to you again, letting your noses rub against each other. This little physical contact made your heart flutter. “And you really made me worry.”

Bateman said it so quickly, as if he wasn't even thinking properly at that moment. Embarrassed, you shrugged a bit in his arms. No matter how hard you tried to believe this man, all you could think about now was whether you were trapped in his other manipulative, mind games.

“I’ll be fine, I promise,” you put a hand on his chest, feeling his heart beating fast under your fingertips and the next second you pulled your hand away as if you got burned. “Anyway, it’s late already and you probably have some more interesting stuff to do.”

His soft chuckling was annoying but pleasant to hear. “You’re not quite hospitable, aren’t you?”

Eventually, he let you go and stepped aside, unbuttoning his jacket — that scene caused your pulse to race. 

“What are you doing?” “What does it look like?”

You crossed your arms and sighed. “Patrick, I really appreciate your help and… the show was really cool, but I doubt I would ever go back to that place again.” Damn it, did you actually say that?

After Bateman removed his jacket, he carefully put it on the back of one of the kitchen chairs and tucked his sleeves. 

“You’re welcome,” he beamed with a cocky smile. “I thought you would offer me some tea, coffee or something?”

“I doubt I have anything good to your taste,” slowly, you turned away from him, as an unpleasant feeling of shame struck you right through your chest. “Mmm, I can only offer you mineral water but it’s not Apollinaris.”

“Oh, dear,” he crooned and suddenly hugged you from behind. “I didn’t expect you to have Apollinaris. Honestly.”

Gasping barely audibly, you covered his arms on your waist with your own arms and cocked your head to meet his brown eyes and for God’s sake, why did he always look so tempting, so captivating, so… magnetizing?

With a sharp breath, you managed to avoid another kiss he planned to pull you into, and it coaxed a low growl of disappointment to erupt from his half-opened lips which were so intended to collapse with yours. 

“Patrick,” you gulped when he nuzzled against your neck, leaving small wet marks along your sensitive skin. “Please, stop. Let me just bring you some water and I want to relax a bit, after… after everything that happened.”

It was kinda unexpected that Bateman decided to let you go as easy as that without even trying to overpower you like he always does.

“And what do you do to relax?"

“Hot bath.” You responded without looking at him. Annoyed, you stumbled past him to grab the meds he was inspecting a few minutes ago, and then you opened the fridge to take out the bottle of mineral water. As soon as you started to pour the water into the most beautiful glass you had, you noticed his persistent stare, which made you almost spill the water onto the kitchen counter. “What?”

“These pills are no good for you, (y/n),” his anxious tone was very unnatural, you didn’t even remember him sounding like this ever before. “Stop being stubborn.”

With a small thud, you put the glass on the table next to him and replied a bit aggressively: "I don't think they're worse than coke."

At first, Bateman just gritted his teeth and clenched his hands into fists, but then he took a quick sip of the mineral water, trying as hard as he could to play cool.

“Thanks.” Was all he said and that was actually not the reaction you have expected.

There was an awkward silence hanging in the air for some seconds and none of you wanted to continue this conversation, but once you tried to move his hand (that was wrapped around your forearm), his low voice engulfed you like a hot steam.

“Cupcake, I just want to make sure you won’t do anything bad.” “W-what do you mean?” You frowned in confusion and glanced at his hand before you raised your eyes to his perfect face. “Patrick, I suffer from panic attacks… not the things you're thinking of.”

“Then, go take a bath and I’ll leave after that.”

“But I’m not a child,” the more you were trying to resist him, the more your body was yearning for his touch, his large palm on your back was enough to make you forget how to breathe. “You don't owe me anything, this is my problem and I’ll handle this, just like I was doing it before.”

“To be fair, your behavior only shows how immature you are,” he crooned and traced a long, sensible line along your spine. “But, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt since you’re overwhelmed.”

At some point, you found yourself tired from trying to convince him to leave you alone, so you just nodded and quickly took your sedative before heading to the bathroom under his attentive gaze. After all, even if you even attempted to make him go away you would fail because compared to him you were so small and weak — Patrick had power over you in all ways, and he knew that. 

You were trapped in your own flat, what nonsense.

In a few minutes, you were sitting in the bath and letting the warm water bring you some relief, just like it always did. Affected by sedatives, you didn’t even remember whether you closed the bathroom door or not, but being honest, you didn’t really care, because even if Patrick came here he wouldn’t see anything new. 

The bitter aftertaste of what happened made you feel like shit, and you really didn't know how to find a way out from it. As if it was not enough for you to be dependent on Patrick (you owe him a lot of money), now you gave him more weaknesses that he could potentially use against you. 

Excellent!

Hugging your knees, you burst in tears — salty tears that were falling into the water, leaving small circles on it. Before now, you didn’t even realize how devastated you were. You closed your eyes for a second and you drifted off almost instantly, and with each passing moment, your body was submerging into the water more and more.

Meanwhile, Bateman was sitting on the little couch in your living room, which he suddenly found pretty cozy, though he checked if everything was clean enough before he dared to take a seat. Did he really think that people outside Manhattan used to live in dirty, trashy apartments? Well, maybe he did, since he didn’t even remember when was the last time he was in such places.

Ever since you left, Patrick had been fighting the temptation to go through your things to find something interesting, which he would of course use for his own interests. But instead, he picked up one of your books from the coffee table, and as he did so, a small piece of paper fell out. Squinting suspiciously, Bateman leaned down to grab it, only to almost crumple it when he saw your handwriting —  the paper was completely covered with your notes, and they were all the same phrase — "If I want to be loved as I am, I have to be willing to love others as they are." Patrick couldn't count how many times you had written that, but each line he read evoked something strange in him — the unraveling feeling that urged him to rip the paper, to crumple it. Is it compassion that he was so afraid of?

Closing his eyes for a moment, Bateman took a deep breath and put the paper back in the book, no matter how much he wanted to destroy it or forget what he had just read. After that, he checked his Rolex and noticed that it had been quite a while since you had left. Slowly, he got up from the couch and went to the bathroom. His 'sixth sense' had never failed him before, so he decided to rely on it and check on you.

Patrick didn’t knock once he noticed that the door was not closed, he just stepped in, looking for you.

“Cupcake, are you—”

A chilling shock swept over him when he saw only the top of your head above the water. Without a second thought, he ran across the bathroom and knelt down beside the tub to pull you out of the water, and the moment he did, you began to cough, clinging to his arms and desperately gasping for air.

“Pat-Patrick,” you were shaking so badly, so he had to hold you in one place, pressing you against his solid chest. “I don’t know how that happened… I… I didn’t want this I—” “Shh, (y/n),” Bateman cooed at you in order to calm you down, but he wasn't any less scared than you. “It’s okay, I’m here.”

Trembling, you looked up at him — your eyes so red from tears, your heart beating like a broken alarm-clock. “I think I ruined your suit… I’m so sorry!”

Appalled, you tried to break free but Patrick didn’t let you move, his strong arms were holding you like tight ropes. Damn, he was so angry — he could sense his blood boiling inside his veins, forcing his jaw to clench in a silent growl. He was so fucking mad at himself. 

How could he let this happen? 

As this question ran through his bewildered mind, he froze in fear. He didn't know if he was talking about letting you nearly drown in your own bathtub or letting you take roots on his broken soul. Maybe that was the reason you two had bonded, two broken souls seeking for something that would stop their pain, something that would bring them freedom from a burdened life. But how could he help you when every day he was fighting his dark side, the side you didn't know about yet? The side he wished you would never meet.

Never.

"God... I'm so stupid." You cried out, interrupting his train of thought and bringing him back to reality. 

"Shh," Bateman husked, cupping your face. "Stop talking!" He sighed and looked into your blurry eyes, breathing so heavily that it was almost painful. "Just don't say anything right now."

Maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe the sedative had a side effect on you, but as soon as he tried to pull you out of the tub completely, your hand slipped down his chest to his groin — your sneaky fingers instantly playing with the buckle of his belt, causing a shaky groan to escape his lips. Dazed, you moved your hand lower to feel the outline of his thick cock getting harder under your touch, but as you were about to unzip his pants, his firm hand stopped you, confusing your cloudy mind and inducing you to raise your eyes to meet his. He could swear no one had ever looked at him like that — so innocently, yet so sinfully. 

"Cupcake, you don't want this," Patrick murmured, removing your hand. "Trust me."

"I do want this!" You replied in a trembling voice, pouting like a child.

"You're so fucking lost right now, you just don't understand," he manhandled you out of the tub and you almost punched him in his beautiful face, but Bateman paid no attention to your attempt to hit him. "Towels, where are they?"

Huffing, he lifted you up, and only then did you calm down, wrapping your hands and legs around him as securely as you could, like you were afraid of falling off the roof of the skyscraper. 

After you pointed at the bathroom counter, Bateman carefully moved towards it to take some big, white towel and wrap it around you — he was drying you off so gently and attentively, it almost made you cry again. 

Emotions were overtaking you.

Patrick didn't even say a word when he was done, he just got another dry towel and swaddled you in it like in a cocoon before carrying you out of the bathroom bridal style. Somehow, he managed to find the way to your bedroom, but once he saw your bed, he scowled and remarked: “Jesus, this bed is so small.”

“I love my bed.” You murmured in reply, hugging his neck and pressing yourself closer against his warm body.

Bateman couldn't help but chuckle in amusement, giving you a brief forehead kiss and sitting you down on the bed. As soon as you lost physical contact with him, you leaned on your elbows, watching him turn around and walk away.

“Patrick! Please, don’t go!” 

Your words echoed inside his head like the most sacred plea, they made him stop and looked in your direction. “I need to remove my clothes since they’re pretty damp,” he checked himself, with a visible disgust on his face. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Be a good girl, and just wait for me here, okay?”

“Fine.” You mumbled and took the plushy bunny which was resting on your bed next to you.

This scene made him chuckle before he left your bedroom. Now you were completely alone with your thoughts, they didn't wait a second to start eating you from the inside again. With your eyes closed, you lay on your back and began to count.

One, two, three…

What if he lied saying that he would return? Gosh, you wanted him to leave the moment you came here, so why were you getting so upset thinking about him leaving you alone just as you asked him for?

Four, five, six…

The inner voice kept reminding you how many times Patrick has hurt you, how many times he made you cry, how many times you felt like a toy in his hands. You gritted your teeth, pressing your hands against your head to stop thinking.

Seven, eight, nine…

How many times have you promised yourself that you would break out from this circle of lies, pain and suffering? 

“Stop it!” You whimpered, shutting your eyes as firm as you could until the tears started to form.

Ten.

“Stop what?” His voice — it was like a lifeline, like a light in the end of the tunnel, it was everything you needed here and now.

The first thing you saw when you opened your eyes was his almost naked form, namely his toned tiddies and his mouth watering V-line, not to mention his perfect abs and the small trail of hair below his navel.

“For one second I thought you would just leave.” You looked into his hazel eyes, which were partly covered by his messy, brown hair.

“In wet clothes?” He giggled and stepped closer to your bed. It was so hard to ignore the bulge in his tight white underwear, but you tried your best not to stare at it. “Feeling better?"

“Yes, I think y-yes,” you swallowed hard when Bateman sat on the edge of your small bed and drew an invisible line across your ankle. “Can I… ask you for something?”

“You can try.” His voice got lower, sending shivers down your spine.

Panting, you uncovered yourself, putting the towel aside and letting him admire the view of your beautiful body, a pleasure he gladly took, his thirsty eyes roaming all over your curves, especially your full breasts and your inviting neck.

“What do you want, Cupcake?” His hand slides up to your hip, teasing the sensitive skin and making you gasp from need. “Tell me.”

“I need you,” you bit your lower lip, frowning from how embarrassed you were. “I n-need you more than ever.”

With no rush, Bateman bent down to your belly to press a brief kiss which elicited a soft moan to fall from your shaky throat. “Show me where you need me.”

You were about to lost it at any second, as the mind-blowing passion was crashing over you like a fucking tsunami, and you didn’t even know if you would survive this. 

Could that be the moment of no return for both of you?

Stifling a moan, you took his big palm and guided between your opened legs – the sound of his fingers sliding along your oozed folds made you arched your back and you thought your heart would break out from your chest. Your heavy breathes filled up the room, and once you felt his hot lips on your mound, you nearly squeaked, creasing the sheets beneath you.

Patrick was enjoying every second of this moment, savoring the taste of your skin, reveling in all your little salacious noises when he encircled his arms around your legs and swiped his tongue over your throbbing clit.

That was the last drop of your resistance and you couldn't control it anymore, throwing your head back and mewling sensually: “Mmhm, Daddy…! You make me f-feel so good.”

“Are you sure you want this?” His sudden question pierced through your head like an electric pulse.

Gulping, you got up a bit to look down at him, his cheeks, neck and shoulders were already flushed, his hair was disheveled and his eyes were as dark as night.

“Yes,” you responded shortly, feeling a tight knot forming inside your lower abdomen just from being so close to his face. “Taste me, Daddy, please… I want to get lost… in you.”

“I see,” he said, hovering over you for a moment to grab the plushy bunny, then handing it to you with a mischievous grin. "Little girls always keep their favorite toys close?”

As soon as you held the bunny, Bateman got back to his previous position, fondling your hips here and there, then he kissed your inner thigh and put your legs together before bending them and pressing against your chest.

“Stay like that.”

After saying that, he brushed away his wavy locks, spit on your pussy and made several, barely sensible, strokes along your bundle of nerves, his sturdy arms were holding your legs to fixate you in one place as his ministrations were making it hard for you to stay still.

“Awww, P-Patrick,” you keened and squeezed the plush toy in your hand, feeling so dirty yet so high from the way his wet tongue was painting various ornaments on your taut lower lips. “I’m gonna faint…”

“Mmm,” he moaned against your feverish little bud before he took it inside his mouth, sucking it so deliciously that your eyes rolled back into your head, your inner walls were already spasming. “You’re my sweet little Cupcake.”

“Yes! Yes, please!”

Slurping at your soaked cunt, Bateman let you rest your legs on his shoulders and pull on his brown hair as you wanted to bring him even closer, moving your hips towards his face. God, you were such a wet moaning mess and when he shoved his long fingers inside of your dripping slit, you lost connection with reality and ascended to the apex of ecstasy.

His fingers were moving inside and outside of you like a clock-work, so smoothly and fast, since he knew your body so perfectly, it was quite simple for him to find your spongy G - spot. Once he started to stimulate it, your toes began to curve and your whole body was jolting as if you were hit by the eclectic shock.

The moment of your orgasm was as astonishing and relieving as a sip of water in the arid desert. But even after you cummed, Patrick didn’t stop eating you out, fingering you harder, so your juices were gashing around your sweaty bodies, the sheets beneath you were already wet and you didn’t know how you would live tomorrow when he leaves you.

“Mmmmh, I’mma cum again, D-Daddy!” You whimpered, squirming around the bed and pressing the plushy bunny against your face as you were on the verge of tears – overstimulation hitting pretty hard.

Bateman only growled in response and stuffed your soaked pussy with another finger, rhythmically swirling his hot tongue around your throbbing tip while his sneaky hand traced up along your shivering body to grope one of your breasts and pinch your engorged nipple.

“Ahhh— GOSH…! Pat—” Your voice cracked as you cummed so hard all around his face that your wetness was literally running down his chin. But he didn’t care, because the only thing that mattered for him was bringing you as much pleasure as he could.

Even when he was panting heavily against your abused cunt, and he almost couldn't feel his fingers anymore, he continued to lap at your cleft. By that moment your legs were looped around his head and you couldn’t stop twitching even for a second, with each lick he sent millions of tingles to your lower belly.

“Daddy, it’s t-too much… I can’t take it any longer.” You felt so goddamn sensitive, and your body was like jelly at this point.

“C’mon, babydoll,” he groaned in a raspy voice after he pulled on your clit with a nasty squeal. “You can give Daddy another one, can't you baby? For me, please?"

This time Patrick buried his tongue as deep inside your womb as he could, licking you from the inside out. He repeated the motion, making you climax countless times in a row, until your little frame couldn't bear it anymore. Soon, you drifted off with a smile of joy on your face, holding the plushy bunny close to your chest. Long time ago that toy was your only friend, but now it seemed like you have become a toy yourself. But unlike the plush bunny, it was obvious that you weren't the only toy for your owner.

Why did it hurt so good to be alive?

[To be continued.]

P.S. Thank you for reading until the end! Any feedback would be greatly appreciated.

💗💗💗

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