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steddie-as-they-come · 5 months

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sequel to my roommate steddie au!! here's the first part! tags have changed, it's now more mature with some fade to black sex

Steve’s so warm. It’s not fair.

Eddie must have half his wardrobe on, tucked under all the blankets on his bed, and Steve is just sitting over there, in a T-shirt and thin sweatpants, like the jackass he is.

"You look cold." Steve says, shifting a bit.

Eddie glares at him. "No shit, Sherlock," he bites out, trying to reign in his temper. All things considered, Steve's a pretty great roommate, sharing his food and his children with Eddie. It's not his fault the college decides to let their students freeze to death.

Steve, to his credit, just laughs at him. "Okay, fine. I was gonna offer for you to come hang out over here, since you're over the vent and I'm not, but if you're gonna be like that-"

Eddie practically teleports out of bed. "No! No, please, Steve, did I ever mention how great your hair looks today and how kind you are to me-"

Steve laughs again, moving out of the way and patting the bed next to him. Eddie doesn't hesitate to scurry up and tuck himself into a little cocoon of his own blankets, trying not to bump Steve's arm as he focuses on his homework. He doesn't completely succeed, and his hand brushes against Steve's bare arm.

"What the fuck?" he says loudly. "Why are you the temperature of a campfire?"

Steve shrugs. "I've always run hot." he says. "It's great during winter movie nights because everyone piles on top of me, but then I get banished during summer movie nights, which is no fun."

Eddie's already sprawled over his shoulder, sighing happily, like some kind of lizard on a sunlit rock. If August Eddie could see him now, he'd try to smack the shit outta him for falling for a straight guy. One who was his roommate, no less.

But it's hard not to when Steve is kind, and accepting, and a little bit stupid, and hot as hell. It isn't like he just tolerates Eddie's physical affection either, he seems to welcome it. Steve even started initiating it, wrapping an arm around Eddie's shoulders, grabbing his arm to haul him out of particularly big crowds, and the hugs. Steve loves hugs.

There's a darkness to Steve too, the way he moves, the way he's always checking over his shoulder, flinching at flickering lights, always ready for a fight.

It makes Eddie wonder if Steve is like him.

Eddie wiggles a bit, adjusting his chin to prop on Steve's shoulder. "Whatcha workin' on?" he asks, just to be nosy.

Steve rolls his eyes, leaning away. "None of your business." he teases.

Eddie misses the warmth as soon as Steve's gone. "Nooooo," he whines. "Come back. I won't look!"

Steve stays leaned away, raising his eyebrows. "You're so weird." he says. It's not in a mean way, more that he's bewildered that one person can be this strange. Eddie takes this as a compliment.

He pretends to freeze to death, jerking and flinching. "It's...so cold." he mutters. "I see...the light... All because my roommate...let me freeze to death..."

Finally, Steve's blissful warmth comes back, and Steve sighs, tapping his pen against his paper. Eddie tries to peek again, and recognizes familiar words.

"Is that a character sheet?" he yells, and Steve frowns at him.

"You said you wouldn't look!"

Eddie waves him off, grabbing for the sheet. "Steve, this is D&D. It's automatically my business when it's D&D."

Steve finally hands it over. "Fine. Yes, it's a character sheet. Dustin's birthday is next Monday, and I was gonna ask you if I could join your game as a present to him."

Eddie nods, inspecting the sheet. Dustin's been begging for Steve to join basically since they started their little arrangement, where Eddie DM's for them in exchange for no more open hostility in the dorms. It may have worked a little too well, given Eddie's budding crush, but c'est la vie.

Eddie hands it back. "You are supposed to give the DM the character sheet a couple days in advance so they have time to work you into the plot."

Steve winces. "Really? Shit, I didn't know that."

"It's fine, I got some ideas, just from looking it over. You can borrow a spare set of dice and one of my miniatures too."

"Oh good, I had no idea if I needed any of that stuff."

"Do you want me to do a little crash course for you?" Eddie asks, preparing to brave the cold to grab his little homemade handbook.

Steve gives him a deadpan look. "Are you kidding me? Dustin is gonna love being better than me at this. I might as well go in with a regular six-sided die and pretend I thought that's the one I needed."

Eddie laughs. "Fair enough." The cold touches his neck and he burrows back into his blankets. "This fucking sucks, by the way. The cold."

"You're a big baby, man. It's fine."

"Ah, yes. Forgot I live with a walking, talking furnace." Eddie rolls his eyes, muttering, "This is worse than the time I was left outside in the cold."

"Wait, what?" Steve turns to him, eyes flinty like steel. "You were...what?"

"Oh. Um." Eddie's not sure how much to reveal, but he figures it had to come out eventually. "My dad left me out in the cold when I was thirteen. I think he thought it'd fix me. I just got really sick, though." He laughs humorlessly.

"You said...fix you?" Steve says, and Eddie's heart drops. He backs away from Steve before starting to talk, trying to find something to defend himself with if Steve gets mad.

"Yeah." Eddie says. "He saw me...kissing a boy."

Steve's eyes widen, and then he scoots closer. Eddie's breath hitches.

"Me too." Steve whispers.

Now it's Eddie's turn to be shocked. Steve continues. "Not...not left outside in the cold. They'd need to be home long enough for that. But...bisexual. I like girls and guys."

There's a tense, charged silence in the room. Eddie draws up all his courage. "I like you, Steve."

Steve stares at Eddie’s lips. “Can I-” he whispers breathlessly.

Eddie, seemingly just as entranced, nods, and Steve leans forward, pressing his lips against Eddie. Almost unconsciously, Eddie tilts his head, deepening the kiss, and Steve hums happily.

Eddie’s tongue swipes at the sealed lines of Steve’s lips. Steve freezes, then slowly, tentatively, opens his mouth.

Give him an inch and he’ll take a mile. Eddie practically pulls Steve down towards him, hands greedily exploring every inch of Steve he could reach. Steve gladly returns the favor, sneaking his hands between Eddie’s back and the mattress so he can feel the muscles lining Eddie’s spine flex and move as Eddie kisses him stupid.

Eddie pulls back, breaking the kiss. Steve whines, actually whines, and dives back in, but Eddie stops him with a gentle hand on his chest.

He kisses the corner of Steve’s mouth, and Steve chases it, leaning subtly towards Eddie, but Eddie just keeps moving, kissing a trail from his mouth to his chin, to the soft skin where Steve's jawline blends into his neck. Steve keeps moving, running his hands up and down Eddie’s back just for something to do.

Eddie reaches the small curve where his shoulder meets his neck, and Steve feels a small scrape of teeth against his skin. He whimpers.

“Oh?” Eddie says, the first thing he’s said since Steve leaned in. His voice is raspy, and Steve privately thinks it's the hottest fucking thing in the world. “There?”

He kisses there again, but this time there's no teeth, and Steve stays quiet, breathing slowly, in and out, in and out.

“Or…did you like it when I did this?”

Eddie leans forward and nips at Steve’s collar, and Steve keens. “Eddieee…” he says, dragging the vowels out too long, leaving that name hanging in the air.

Eddie tilts his head back up and captures Steve’s lips in another kiss, tongue sliding into Steve’s mouth smoothly. He kisses for a few seconds, then readjusts and gently nips at Steve’s lower lip.

“Please, please Eddie,” Steve begs breathlessly, not even sure what he's pleading for. Eddie seems to get it though, and slides his hands under his shirt to cup Steve’s waist.

Steve laces his hands through Eddie's hair and pulls, and Eddie lets out a moan, pushing Steve off of him and rolling so he's on top, enjoying the feeling of Steve under him on the mattress.

"I've never been so glad for the cold," he whispers against Steve's lips, and kisses him again.

#steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #college au #stranger things #steddie fanfiction #steddie fic #i am not brave enough to write actual smut yet. so fade to black it is

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9leaguesofmirrors · 8 months

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The Favour (a Ross Gaines x Joseph Lisgoe fanfic)

What if Pauline refused to help Ross in season 3 episode 1 and she left before that very scarring scene ever happened? In this version, he decides to call in the help of an old acquaintance

This one is a little more ✨spicy✨ than my other fics, but it's just fade-to-black, I'm not quite brave enough to write actual smut

I love how well these GIFs go together, like Ross just made a smug comment and Lisgoe's sick of his crap 😆

**********************************************

"I've come here on my fucking time off, so this better be important."

Ross couldn't remember when he started being on speaking terms with Joseph Nigel Lisgoe, but it happened. They weren't friends, but they also weren't exactly enemies. Well, Ross thought Lisgoe was a sadistic cretin who used violence to make up for his lack of brain cells, and Lisgoe thought Ross was an arrogant bastard with no concernable personality. Other than that, they didn't hate each other

Hence why Ross didn't see an issue with enlisting his help. Since he didn't have his number, he had to track down and slip a note under his office door that read I need your help, we'll discuss at my house followed by his address

Which is how he got here, face-to-face with a very unhappy Lisgoe at his front door

"Make yourself at home."

Ignoring this statement (which he could tell was merely being said out of politeness), Lisgoe all but barged past and leaned against a counter in the kitchen

"Your house reminds me of you: dead on the inside."

"I didn't invite you here to insult me."

"Couldn't you at least have gotten dressed? You look like a right twat in that dressing gown."

"I think," Ross said as he went to the cupboard and poured them both a glass of wine "that we should focus on the real reason I asked you here."

Lisgoe curled his upper lip slightly, as if he would rather have been anywhere else at this point, but took the glass anyway. He took a sip, watching Ross closely

"You gonna tell me or am I supposed to guess?"

"Someone I hired for an undercover job has decided to go against me."

"Fucking hell, OK James Bond!"

This was met with a glare, not that Lisgoe seemed to be all that bothered. In fact, he has a shit-eating grin on his face that suggested he found this whole thing funny

"I don't know why you're laughing."

"You're so far up your own arse, no wonder you talk a load of shite!"

"I'm going to ignore that. All I'm asking is for you to get rid of her, I'm sure that won't be too taxing on you, what with the very little brain power you possess."

"I'm not a contract killer." Lisgoe put his glass down on the counter "I may be a crazy bastard, but I'm not some assassin."

"You're the only one with enough of a craving for violence and lack of empathy to do it."

There was a pause. Lisgoe took another swig of wine

He'd never admit it out loud, but it was refreshing to have someone challenge him. As much as he liked being the one everyone feared, there was something about Ross' lack of fear that both frustrated him and kept him oddly entertained

"What's in it for me?"

Ross considered his answer, but his thoughts were somewhat hazy, clearly more interested in why Lisgoe was staring at him. He was completely unreadable, which was off-putting to say the least. And yet it, for some reason, made him feel more drawn to him. He wanted to know what it would take to make him snap - what he would do when he did

"Who says you're getting anything?"

"I'm not doing this shite for free." Lisgoe sneered, taking a step towards him "It comes with a price."

They weren't incredibly close, but it was enough for Ross to briefly catch his scent. Sharp, spicy cologne which seemed to fuse with the underlying leftovers of cigarette smoke. It wouldn't be much of a surprise if he'd smoked before he came here; he could see it now, Joseph Lisgoe outside the door with a cigarette in his mouth... sucking it gently... his eyes closing as the smoke fell from his lips

Ross put an end to that thought immediately

"I could tip off the police to the rumours going around Royston Vasey about your violent tendancies, I'd say guess how many years you'd get," he put a hand on Lisgoe's shoulder and looked at him with pure mockery in his eyes "but I'd hate for you to hurt your head."

"You'd tell the police, would you?" Lisgoe retorted in a soft voice that made it sound more like a dare than a question

"What if I did?"

Despite not being the most intellectual of people, Lisgoe could read emotions on their faces and bodies easily. It's what he used to get under people's skin before he inevitably threw a punch. There was a stillness in Ross' body language that told him he was telling the truth - he respected that, in a way. Another thing he caught onto was Ross' eyes. They seemed to drag their way up and down his frame, meeting his eyes with a subtle, sharp intake of breath. He was being looked at in a way that was rare for him, yet something in him was very satisfied that it was directed to him alone

But there was something else. Something of a spark in his eyes, something that said I'm onto you

He wasn't about to give him the upper hand

"I don't ask for much." His voice was softer, slightly rough "But, if you need me as badly as you clearly fucking do, then you'll have to convince me."

"That depends on two factors: what you want, and how you want me to convince you?" Ross chewed his lower lip, an action that caused Lisgoe's jaw to tighten

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

Satisfied with the edge he'd taken from him, Ross put down his glass. As he did, he made sure to let his hand brush against Lisgoe's, relishing in the way he jolted away

"There's a grand history of people who, daggers drawn, eventually find each other attractive." He said innocently, tilting his head to the side slightly as he stared into dusty blue eyes "What do you think, Joseph?"

Nobody called him Joseph

It's was Lisgoe or, if you worked for him, Mr. Lisgoe. A silent agreement among the inhabitants of Royston Vasey. He didn't know what was worse: the fact Ross had the balls to break that rule, or the fact it sounded so nice in his voice

"I think you need to remember who you're talking to. You might get away with saying what you like to the thick pigs at the dole house, but I'm not that easily fucked with."

The venom in Lisgoe's voice shouldn't have affected Ross the way it did. He wasn't scared, but it pierced through his chest and pumped molten fire through his body

"I assume," He put his hand deliberately over the man's wrist, his voice steady "you know what you want in return for all of this?"

Lisgoe took a step forward and stared. It was like he was considering not the offer, but him. Finally, he spoke again:

"Anywhere between 10,000 and 20,000 is great."

"Excuse me?" Was Ross' response, trying not to look too disappointed as Lisgoe pulled away "You expect me to pay you that amount for one simple task?"

"You're not asking me to have a little chat, are you? You want me to get rid of a bitch, and the fact you contacted me means you want it to hurt."

"You're hardly worth the oxygen I breathe, let alone £10-20,000."

"You've got a set of balls, haven't you?"

"I want you to leave."

"Now hold your fucking horses, I'm not done!"

He moved over to the address book on the table and opened it, slightly surprised by how empty it was. Surely this guy knew more people than WORK and MOTHER

"So, is your dad an asshole? Or is he dead?"

"What are you doing?" Ross asked, clearly not appreciating the question

"You got a pen?"

"Don't pretend you can write."

"Fuck off and get me a pen! Wait, shut up..."

"I didn't say-"

"Here's one."

Lisgoe had taken a pen from inside his suit jacket and scrawled something onto the page. Upon inspection, Ross noticed it was a phone number with the initials JNL next to it

"As a debt collector, I never like doing favours without getting something in return."

"And what exactly do you have in mind? If it's more money, I'm out."

"You doing anything tonight?"

Of all the things he expected to hear, that wasn't one of them. Regardless, he shook his head neutrally

"I'll be back in an hour." Lisgoe put the pen down on the table "For the love of shite, get dressed."

"What's the occasion?" Ross sneered in response

"The occasion is, when I get back, I'm doing whatever the fuck I want with you."

Ross' chest caved in. He couldn't think of the worse reason: actual fear or... OK, maybe the second option. Either way, he was trying not to show it on his face

"What exactly are you implying?"

That made Lisgoe laugh a little. Ross went to question him, but was quickly silenced by being tugged by his dressing gown into a searing kiss. It was forceful, not that it came as a surprise - this was Lisgoe, after all. And Ross certainly wasn't complaining. Especially not when his lower lip was being pulled between Lisgoe's teeth

"Unless you have another stupid question, I'll see you later today"

Before he could turn and go, Ross had grabbed him by the wrist

"You said earlier that a debt collector always gets something in return, would you also say they'd rather get it in a timely manner?"

"I don't remember what I said, but sure. What's your point?"

"There's clearly something between us. A certain... heat-"

"Alright, Ozzy Wilde."

"Oscar Wilde, but that's beside the point. What I'm saying is what's the point in waiting for it to cool down?" In a moment of boldness, Ross reached for Lisgoe's jacket. Without breaking eye contact for more than a second, he unbuttoned it slowly "Unless you're too scared to-"

Once again, his words were cut short and Lisgoe's mouth was on his. It was frantic and raw, neither one of them was interested in being gentle. Ross' hands were warm, Lisgoe's skin was cold, which came together to form what could only be described as electricity. Without breaking the kiss, Lisgoe was being pushed against the kitchen counter and, well, Ross was dropping to his knees to return a favour

*********************************************

"So, what's the bitch's name again?" Lisgoe asked as he threaded his belt through the loops of his trousers

"Pauline Campbell-Jones," Ross sat down on his sofa "she's completely egregious. She's violent, foul-tempered and vulgar."

"Right, I suppose you only find those traits sexy in men."

"Let's make this clear, I only did that to pay you back."

Lisgoe didn't know why he got the urge to ask, but he sat down beside Ross and looked at him with slightly furrowed brows

"Do you fuck everyone that you ask to favours?"

"No."

"So I'm a special case?"

Ross looked Lisgoe up and down contemplatively, then replied "Yes."

"Can you say anything else? One-word responses piss me off."

There was another silence. Ross stared at the wall, thinking things through. OK yes, maybe part of the reason was to get Lisgoe on board with his plan, but did he enjoy it? Maybe he did. So what? Since when did sex mean anything? That being said, even with all that aside, Lisgoe wasn't completely insufferable to be around. In fact, he was one of the few inhabitants of Royston Vasey that he could see as being something of an equal to him

"We don't have to be strangers, I suppose. You did give me your number for some reason."

"Ignore it then," Lisgoe shrugged as he got up "I just gave it to you so I could tell when I was done with her."

Then there was an odd moment of pause

Ross stood up and they were facing each other. It was awkward and tense, but not altogether unpleasant. Just strange. Almost as if neither of them were in a rush for it to be over

Suddenly, Lisgoe snapped out of it and headed for the front door. Ross went to let him out. It was all very formulaic, as if nothing happened between them. And surely, that's all it was

Nothing at all

Once he'd gone, Ross went back into the kitchen area and looked at the number written into his book. Then he saw it

Lisgoe had left his pen behind

If he hurried, he could probably catch up and give it to him. Or he could wait for him to realise and come back for it

Ah well, what's the rush?

#league of gentlemen #the league of gentlemen #ross gaines #joseph lisgoe #gainsgoe

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erin-bo-berin · 4 years

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Birthday Surprise

MASTERLIST

So I actually got this idea from a adult romance book I read last year and it was so humorous, I knew I wanted to write a scenario like it with Spencer and the team. Besides, Spencer can be funny at times too. Hope you enjoy!

Spencer Reid/Reader

Rating: M (smut)

Word Count: 2,529

You can’t believe you let your best friend talk you into this.

“It will be a great birthday present!” Bree exclaimed, beaming.

You grumble to yourself. This was a better idea in theory than reality.

Your boyfriend, Spencer Reid, had a birthday coming up. It was the last year of his 30’s and you really wanted to do something special for him, but with every gift you thought of, it just didn’t seem to be enough.

That was when Bree, the grand schemer of all schemes, came up with what she thought was a brilliant idea.

She worked at a nice, upscale restaurant as a waitress. Also, she had one of the nicest sections. You were to make reservations for you two and you would hide under the table for when he arrived and you could give him a secretive, surprise blow job. It would be hot and memorable, she said.

You arrived at the restaurant 15 minutes early. Bree had managed to snag you a table that was off in a corner, with more privacy and helped you under the table. Which is where you currently were.

It all sounded great when she had hatched the idea, now you just felt silly, your knees were numb and your feet were falling asleep. You were about ready to give up and come out from under the table with your tail between your legs when you heard voices approaching your table.

“Here’s your table, sir, I’ll be right back with your menu,” Bree said, probably louder than she should have.

With one rap against the table, you knew that she was giving you the signal that you two were alone now.

You watch as he sat down and you see his familiar black converse suddenly appear inches from your legs, his black suit pants accompanying the shoes. He’d probably just come from work.

You hesitate, not sure if you should go through this, but decide you’ll never get another chance like this. You’re reaching out for his belt buckle when you hear Bree’s voice, loud and close again.

“Can I help you?”

There was a pause and then a mixture of voices you didn’t recognize.

“Let me see if I have a bigger table available in my area! I’ll be just one second!”

Bree’s voice is suddenly high pitched, sounding frantic. You know her voice only sounds like that during super busy shifts, when she’s panicked and freaking out. Something is wrong and you have no idea what’s going on.

Your phone buzzes in your purse. You twist around, not easily, to retrieve it from your bag. It’s a text from Bree.

ABORT MISSION. More dinner guests.

Your brows furrow. You have no earthly idea what she’s talking about. You send back a few question marks.

A huge group of people just showed up to your and Spencer’s table.

Your phone vibrates repeatedly with multiple texts from your friend.

Tall assassin looking black woman.

Hispanic looking guy with nice hair.

Buff Asian hottie with tattoo.

Italian grandpa.

Brunette boss lady with bangs.

Pretty blonde with killer legs.

Another blonde wearing every color in the rainbow and cute shoes.

You stop breathing for a second. They all sound like Spencer’s coworkers.

As in coworkers from the team in the unit of the FBI, where he works. This was not how you planned to meet them for the first time.

You have no idea why they’re here though, so you’re just as bewildered as Bree. But you’ve started to panic, trying to figure out how you’re gonna escape with no one seeing you. It would be humiliating to meet Spencer’s work family like this.

How the hell am I gonna get out from under the table without them knowing?

Don’t worry, I got this.

You hear the clicking of heels approaching and hear Bree talking to the team.

“We’re working on that table, why don’t I escort you all to the bar so you can see our drink menu.”

“I’ll wait here with you, Spence,” a male voice said.

“Damnit,” you mumble.

Now your escape was going to be even harder.

The majority of the voices fade away with Bree’s and you sighed, resigned to the fact that you’re going to be stuck under this table for a while.

You make a mental note not to listen to another one of Bree’s ideas.

“So, kid, did you tell Y/N that you were inviting us to your birthday dinner? We’re all so excited to meet her.”

“No,” Spencer answered the deep, older sounding voice, “I wanted to surprise her because I was afraid if I told her beforehand she’d stress out about meeting all of you.”

Well that explained that.

You were surprised alright.

“How long have you been together now? Over a year? And we haven’t even met her yet? Are you sure you haven’t made her up?”

You bite your thumbnail trying your hardest not to laugh out loud.

“No, Rossi, I haven’t made her up. She’s real. Besides you know every time we tried to make plans something has come up.”

“Quite conveniently too, I might add.”

You already like this guy.

“She should be here soon,” Spencer said.

You catch a glimpse of him pulling his phone out of his pants pocket, positive he’s checking if there’s any missed texts or phone calls from you.

You guess now is the best time of any to make him aware of your presence.

Your hand slides up his thigh and you choke back your cackle when he practically jumps ten feet in the air.

“Something wrong?”

“Uh I dropped my phone under the table, let me just get it.”

His chair scoots back and he bends down under the table, pretending to retrieve his phantom fallen cell phone. His eyes widen when he sees you under the table. You give a meek smile and wave in return.

You point to your phone, miming texting to tell him that’s the only way you can talk without being found out.

“Oh found it. It fell against the wall.”

Spencer sits back up again, pulling his chair in as he settles.

“I think I’m gonna text Y/N, just so I can get her ETA,” Spencer says calmly.

He’s way too good at staying calm in situations, so you’re not too surprised that he sounds completely normal even though he just discovered his girlfriend curled up in an uncomfortable position, under a table in a restaurant.

I’m afraid to ask why you’re under the table.

That was one good thing about Spencer; he didn’t have a mean bone in his body. So instead of mocking you, embarrassing you or even being angry, he approached most things calmly. Although you’re sure he’s secretly dying of amusement over this. You’re positive this isn’t going to be the last time you hear about this.

Well, I was kinda hoping to surprise you for your birthday with a hot, secret blowjob...but it kinda blew up in my face instead of how you were supposed to.

You hear him snort above you which he quickly covers with a cough.

“Y/N should be here soon. She’s probably closer than she thinks.”

You hit his leg. What a smart ass he is, although technically he is a smart ass but that’s another story.

Help me get out of here. I don’t want to exactly pop out to meet your teammates like “hi I was just hiding out for a nice birthday sexcapade nice to meet you”.

Technically doesn’t that mean an illicit affair?

Spencer, we really need to introduce you to Urban Dictionary.

A chorus of voices approach the table.

“Any update on that table?” came a female voice.

“Nothing yet. But, uh, have you seen their amazing aquarium? Come on, I’ll show it to you!”

“I gotta head to the ladies room, I’ll find you at our new table.”

This voice was a different female voice from the first one.

You wait until the numerous voices get far enough from the table when you decide to peek from underneath the tablecloth. You curse, seeing a woman that looks a lot like what Bree described as the brunette boss lady walking in your direction. That was most definitely Spencer’s boss.

You drop the tablecloth like it’s on fire, concealing yourself once again. You watch as the feet pass by the table and brave another look. Thankfully, it’s all clear.

You dash as fast as you towards the kitchen. If Bree is in there, your hands might find their way around her neck.

•

“Bree, that could’ve been disastrous!” you shriek, causing a few of the kitchen staff to peer over at you.

Sorry, you mouth, wincing.

“Well it’s not like Spencer is mad is it?” she asked, loading plates onto her tray.

“No, but he’s not going to let me live it down.”

“Hey, think of it this way. He’s gonna be thinking of that BJ the entire dinner,” she smirked.

“I’m never listening to another one of your hair brained ideas,” you grumbled.

“Hey, you’ll thank me later,” she sing-songed lifting the tray of food to her shoulder, “Now just go out the back kitchen door, walk around to the front of the restaurant and it will be like nothing ever happened.”

She was gone through the swinging doors in a jiff and you sighed, heading towards the back door.

•

It takes a whole ten minutes for you to circle the entire building before you finally reach the front doors. You attempted to compose yourself and straighten your red mini dress before entering and going to find the new table. You spot them a few minutes later and walk up nervously.

“There she is!”

Spencer’s face lights up when he sees you and suddenly you don’t feel as nervous as you did seconds before. He loved this group of people and that meant a lot to have a Spencer seal of approval. Maybe the night wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“Did you take the subway here?” Emily asked.

“Um, yes. That’s why I’m late, I’m so sorry.”

“I sure hope it wasn’t too crowded down there—I mean in there,” Spencer smirks.

You shoot him an exasperated look and are met with one of his thousand kilowatt smiles.

Turns out, dinner wasn’t so bad after all.

•

“You were right; they were all incredibly nice,” you say as you and Spencer walk in the door of your apartment, “I love them.”

“I knew you would,” he smiled.

“So, have you had a great birthday?”

“Well I’ve had quite the unusual one, that’s for sure.”

You stifle a groan as you kick off your heels in the hallway.

“I still can’t believe you actually hid under a table to surprise me.”

He’s already laughing again.

“I’m still gonna kill Bree.”

“Hey,” he grabs you by the arm, turning you towards him, “I’m incredibly flattered that you went to such lengths for me.”

“Really?” you asked timidly.

“Of course,” he smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, “Not every girlfriend would plan to blow their boyfriend in front of his coworkers.”

“Spencer!”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” he chuckled, leaning against the hallway wall, pulling you towards him and kissing you.

“Mm, well it is still your birthday, you know,” you say devilishly, biting his bottom lip gently then kissing him again.

You pull away, taking a hold of his tie before leading him to the bedroom. It takes a few minutes for you both to make it there as he stops you frequently to steal a kiss or two.

Finally at your destination, you push him against the closed bedroom door, fingers pulling off his tie. Your lips trail his jaw then neck, fingers fumbling over his button down.

He chuckles amused, aiding you. Your mouth travels down his neck and over his chest, making slow work of your descent. He watches you closely as you fall to your knees, a kiss placed just above the waistline of his pants. Your hand comes up to press against the forming bulge in his pants and he groans lowly.

“I may not have been able to do this earlier, but we’ve got all the time in the world now,” you bite your lip and peer up at him innocently.

Popping the button and pulling his zipper down, you push his pants down over his hips. The edges of your fingers dip into the waistband of his underwear and you hear the sharp intake of his breath; you can tell how much he’s anticipating this.

Apparently Bree was right and he had been thinking about it all dinner long, especially if his small stolen touches under the table were any indicator. There would be a gentle touch on your thigh, slowly sliding just a bit too close towards your inner thigh; an arm wrapped around your back, his fingers just casually brushing the bottom swell of your breast. He had been ready for this hours ago and you were ready to give it to him.

Your eyes don’t leave his as the clothing is pulled downwards and you wrap a hand around him, squeezing just hard enough to cause his head to fall back with a dull thud against the door, a groan coming from deep in his throat.

You lean down, tongue swirling around the tip, agonizing slow, your fingertips ever so slightly tracing down his length.

“Oh god,” he groaned, “Don’t tease me, Y/N.”

“Not so fun when you're not the one dishing it out, now is it?”

He could be the ultimate tease in the bedroom, so this taste of his own medicine was long overdue.

Your tongue swirls around him before taking him in your mouth, his moan of relief and pleasure filling your ears.

With hollowed cheeks, you alternate your speed and pressure, keeping him on his toes, making your next move unpredictable to him.

“Baby, please.”

His moans are louder and more frequent as his hand moves into your hair. You look up through your lashes as you work him, keeping your gaze locked on him. You think you actually hear him whimper.

Your hand pumps the rest of him, your wrist turning as your mouth moves on him, your tongue whirling as if you’re enjoying a favorite ice cream cone.

His hand tightens in your hair and you can tell he’s close to losing all control.

“Y/N, Y/N, fuck, fuuuuck,” he groans finally letting go and succumbing to his ecstasy.

You take all he has in stride, discreetly wiping your mouth when you pull back although you’re sure he’s too dazed to notice.

“Happy birthday to me,” Spencer mumbles, pulling you to your feet and kissing you.

You break the chaste kiss, backing up towards the bed.

“Well lucky for you, there’s still three and a half hours left of your birthday. How about we do a little more celebrating?”

It takes him all of two steps to cross the room and take you in his arms, causing you to giggle.

Yeah, this would be a birthday he wouldn’t forget anytime soon.

Tag List: @dreatine @reid-187 @groovyreid @reidslibra @suvikamahes98blr @fuckthealarm @whatspunispun @iamburdened @cindywayne @thomasfoockinshelby @tinyminy88 @theitcaramelchick @missprettyboy@hushlilbabydoll @sammy-jo1977 @theonlyone-meeeee @haileymorelikestupid

#spencer reid #dr spencer reid #spencer reid gifs #Spencer Reid fic #spencer reid smut #dr spencer reid fic #dr spencer reid gifs #dr spencer reid smut #Criminal Minds #criminal minds gifs #criminal minds fic #criminal minds smut #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you

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juleswolverton-hyde · 4 years

Text

The Castle on the Hill Chapter 1: Hyde

Genre: Smut, Romance, Fluff, Thriller, Werewolf AU

Pairing: Werewolf!Bangchan x Reader

Warnings: No warnings apply

Summary: Superstition is as powerful as religion, especially to those living in the countryside. Nevertheless, the sole outsider in town fully joins in the belief of the Last Warden of the North and is insistent on protecting the only girl who accepts him yet refutes the local lore.

However, there is something in the castle on the hill.

And it hungers for something in the village below.

Someone.

You.

Author’s Note: Hello,

Indeed, I am still very much alive but have been extremely busy with university and my job. However, now that the holidays are coming up and I am on my Christmas break, I have a wee bit o’ time to write leisurely again.

I came up with this tale when I was in Cardiff in November, strolling around Bute Park and thinking of ‘Castle on the Hill’ by Ed Sheeran. And, let us be honest, I was thinking of Chan as well (though that should not come as a surprise at this point).

Regardless, hopefully you will enjoy this wee trilogy.

Forever yours,

The Red Raven

Hyde / The Marriage of Man and Beast / Jekyll

Masterlist

Religion is a form of superstition, but just as powerful as the latter for it has ruled mankind in equal amounts, co-existing yet often the cause for war as well. In contemporary times, however, the belief in all folkloric creatures seems to have faded into a case for a good laugh rather than truly believing death will come at hearing the wail of a banshee or swearing the ghost of the black nun continues to haunt the ruins of the friary at which entrance she is buried. Withal, the faith in a particular mythological being has been altered time and again thanks to pop culture but, perhaps fortunately so, the origins of the legend remain remembered vividly by the people who inhabit the area the tale stems from.

The golden sunlight outlines the ruins of the majestic castle that once graced the hill outside the park, mustard and amber leaves littering the pathways frequented by strollers while the weather still permits it. Soon, winter shall conquer autumn and the rains increase in frequency. Henceforth, the days running a small café in the middle of the park is enjoyed the most when all is grand, the world frozen in a perfect seasonal frame.

‘You’re either immensely stupid or incredibly brave to run this establishment, lass.’ A cup of steaming black coffee is served to the wise old man living around the corner of the recreational ground, the white brick worker’s house providing a view on the scenery that everyone seems to fear even in the twenty-first century. Always up for conversation, Paidraigh has helped a novice independent entrepreneur almost flawlessly continue the business formerly run by one of the local women who had to stop due to health issues. He might look like a grumpy soul despising the world, but the stout figure with wise wrinkles and bushy pale beard is actually one of the kindest people residing in the wee village.

‘How do you mean that, sir?’

‘Have ye nay heard o’ the wolf inhabiting the castle?’

‘I have heard the whispers of strange sounds coming from the ruins at night, aye, but I am sure it’s nothing to worry about.’

‘The word’s it’s a wolf, the spirit of the fierce Last Warden of the North to whom the castle once belonged. It’s said that once he entered the battlefield, all that would be left o’ the enemies were bloody carcasses. As if eaten by, ye guessed it, a wolf.’ Kind stone irises gain a wary glint once they wander to the edge of the sandstone terrace, noticing the heavy boot fall of the town’s most recent inhabitant. ‘Speak of the Devil and he shall appear.’

‘Paddy, don’t be mean. Drink your coffee and leave the lad be, alright?’ A palm amiably pats a broad shoulder before tucking the serving plate under the armpit and heading back to the counter to take a new order.

And likely do more than that, knowing the newcomer.

‘Alright, fine. Just watch yersel’ around him. One wolf is more than enough for this village.’

‘Hiya, how are you?’ Before the habitual order can be placed with as few words as possible, attention is called to the deep scarlet scar running over the bridge of a big nose. ‘What did you do to get that?’

‘Bar fight.’ A soft smile is laboriously carved onto roseate lips, likely albeit clearly suppressing the memory of the scene causing the physical damage. Nevertheless, once gazes lock, the hatred is actively tried to be kept to a bare minimum and show a friendly side the reclusive does not always reveal to anyone. ‘An americano, please.’

Without speaking further, the beverage is prepared. However, as the coffee machine is buzzing while freshly grinding beans to create a perfectly brewed medium roast, the first-aid supplies stored in a cupboard beneath the counter are sought out and taken alongside the drink to the outside of the little booth. Of course, it could have been slid to the customer immediately through the window but it simply happened to unnecessarily be carried as well.

‘Here’s your americano.’ Sitting down on the empty stool across from the silent force looking on in surprise while maintaining a friendly though slightly tired tone, fingers search among the medical care items for the disinfectant and a cotton pad. The frustration wants to be kept to a minimum but it is hard to do so when this very same scene keeps repeating itself and fuels the bad image the villagers have of, in their eyes, a stranger.

Bruises and open wounds thanks to fights that were either started by one’s own volition or after provocation.

Cuts thanks to carving the wooden pillars dotting the grand park, curiously staying close to the little café and helping out at times by remaining on the grand lawn regardless of how many meters need to be bridged to get the new piece of art where it belongs.

‘I’m fine.’ The remark is clearly meant to dismiss the caregiving yet results in all but that since physical damage, no matter of what nature and source, do ignite a genuine worry for the local woodcarver.

Although the habitual resorting to sarcasm protects sincere emotions from showing. Nonetheless, it is helpful in chastising, never failing to eventually get Christopher to look like a guilty puppy while patching him up. ‘And I’m the Queen of Sheba. You strained yer knuckles too much and now they’re bleeding again.’

‘It’s but a scratch.’

‘Is what the Black Knight said before he got annihilated by King Arthur. Give me your hand, you eejit.’

‘Y/N, it’s fine.’

‘No, it’s fecking not.’ A deep sigh lowers tense shoulders admitting that stubbornness will lead nowhere and thus take a soft-spoken yet still genuine approach. ‘I just want to help. Please, give me your hand.’

Howbeit reluctant, the damaged calloused palm nevertheless reaches out and comes to rest in a concerned lap as small digits wrap lightly around the wrist to keep it in place. ‘Thank you.’

The bystanders are ignored as the fresh ugly patches of broken skin are taken care of, taking great care to clean the wounds properly before bandaging them up. Withal, what cannot be ignored is the low threatening growl rolling from plush lips with every touch of disinfecting cotton. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Sorry. It’s just that, grm, it really fucking hurts.’ Teeth grit, snarls and hisses alternating with the light dabs as irises shoot invisible daggers. The free hand which has yet to be treated moulds into a trembling fist trying to remain static despite the agony.

‘Then maybe you shouldn’t get into fights in the first place. What even was it about?’ The damage has been cleaned enough to apply an ointment and bandage the harmed knuckles, gaining the same feral reaction as before.

Notwithstanding, the silence is filled by wordlessness and primal noises, igniting an irritation at the deduction the chastisement is ignored in stubbornness. However, the assumption is counteracted when a whisper provides a muttered surprising answer that fuels a novel sort of annoyance in the mocha locks sitting on the stool. ‘Someone insulted you.’

No, it is not irritation.

Rage.

Pure fury, barely contained.

‘Me? Why?’ Puzzled by the confusing display of hatred against an absent party, locks tilt in patient curiosity waiting for the story.

‘It wasn’t really an insult. Just men drunkenly talking about how they’d show up here to surprise you and you’d be the girlfriend of one of theirs and how lucky you’d be with one of them.’ The split bottom lip is caught between pearly teeth, nibbling while trying to regain a calmer composure even though it is hard when the second set of broken skin is about to be treated. ‘I couldn’t- couldn’t, fuck, that stings! I couldn’t stand the arrogant, hrm, tone and nonsense so I... I just lost it. Snapped.’

‘Christopher-’ The imminent correcting in spite of secretly being flattered by the reason that likely holds no meaning whatsoever since there is more of a patient-nurse relationship is cut short by a low snigger. ‘Hey, why are you smiling like that?’

‘I just like the way you say my name.’ Bright earthly irises set above a big nose marred by a scar likely inflicted by a knife blade are humoured, the sentiment filtering through in the gentle curve of plush lips. The playful aura makes the woodcarver appear quite boyish, a stark contrast with the pub brawler the village has cast out from the beginning.

‘Well, it’s yours, aye?’ Heated cheeks faking casualness return to the task of taking care of the other damaged hand, trying badly to ignore the sweet smile now vividly engraved into memory.

Keep it together. It means nothing. You’re more his nurse than anything else. You’re just friends, if there is any friendship at all. He simply trusts you.

‘Yeah, but-’

‘And I’m sure I don’t say it any differently than any other person.’

‘Still, I like- fuck!’ A giggle flows over into a curse when the bandage is tugged perhaps a bit too tightly to nevertheless teach the lesson of not getting into fights as often as one does. A pleased little grin cannot be suppressed, hiding the delight at the hopefully effective teaching method that will lessen the scene which is exhaustingly re-enacted over and over.

‘If you didn’t get into fights, I wouldn’t have to keep patching you up and you wouldn’t have to deal with the pain.’ A new cotton pad is soaked in disinfectant while throwing a cautious glance in Paddy’s direction, the old man’s lips tightly sealed as grey whiskers move ever so slightly in discomfort.

‘He doesn’t like me.’ A sombre self-aware tone sneaks into lowered defeated shoulders turned towards the old cod, gaze softening in powerlessness.

‘That’s not true.’ The seemingly misplaced remark pulls the young man’s attention, head slightly tilting to the side while irises remain strangely heart-wrenchingly grave.

If only they could know you the way I do.

‘Y/N,’ the powerful mere word is spoken as if surrender is not an option, that the truth of being disliked has to be admitted even though it does not want to be, ‘It’s obvious. Everyone’s afraid of me.’

‘The only thing they’re really scared of is the wolf up in the castle.’ Mocking local superstition, a sigh rolls from the lips setting to work on the carmine single cut running over the nose. There is no resistance this time, Christopher moving, in fact, to the edge of the stool for better access and to make cleaning the scar easier. ‘Guess I’ll hear the same uselessly worried whispers again from the customers tomorrow.’

A hand rests leisurely on the thigh for support, but is taken to come to rest on the brawler’s cheek and kept there, a content hum filling the air scented by coffee and cologne. Lashes flutter shut as mocha locks lean into the touch, almost as if falling asleep right here and now. It would be a lie to say the display does not spread an odd fuzzy warmth throughout, especially when memories of healing up close, observing wood being carved from a distance or problems with difficult people were solved in the same proximity as now resurface.

Unfortunately, the delightful image is disrupted a second later for the jaw clenches as a low beastly rumble rises from a broad chest trying hard to remain casual as the disinfectant once again stings in the stupidly acquired cut. Irises light up in an amber flash, bearing a terrifying violent hatred that calms down immediately upon establishing a bit of distance that nullifies the intimacy. A confused heart does not know what to make of it, only that the rage that surfaced as rapidly as it disappeared never wants to be directed towards oneself.

Still, a normal question is raised in an odd undefinable manner that rises from the fearsome wolfish attitude, voice sounding apologetical and clearly wanting to move past something as digits vaguely reach out but drop restlessly in ignorance of what to do. ‘Are you staying open much longer?’

The throat is cleared to regain composure, hardy succeeding yet enough to answer as if nothing happened. ‘Till six, as usual.’ The resumed dabbing briefly stops at the notice of an uneasy shift in weight, a panic without direct cause causing the action. ‘Why do you ask?’

Bandaged hands awkwardly occupy one another in futile twirling of cared-for fingers as the tongue staring at the sandstone is hesitant to voice what suddenly has become urgent. ‘Can you close earlier?’

‘I could but why would I?’ Feigning not having taken notice in the change of demeanour, the last straws are laid in nursing the bloody scar. The palm leaning on the knee of mocha locks, put there in an unconscious move after pulling up the unresisting chin for better access, does seem to calm the nerves somewhat as the regulation of breathing suggests.

When applying the ointment, it is entirely regular and a sigh is relieved with the company.

Only to speed up again when worriedly mentioning the legend that has the entire village spooked even in the twenty-first century. ‘The wolf.’

‘Christopher, don’t you get started as well. There’s no wolf in the castle, no spirit of the Last Warden of the North.’ Shuffling to the edge of the stool, something is attempted to be done about the split lip which has started bleeding again. ‘Your lip is bleeding. Sit still for a wee bit, will ye?’

Calloused fingers wrap firmly around the wrist reaching out after soaking a new dot of cotton in disinfectant, earthly irises ablaze with superstitious concern flowing over in pleading speech. ‘Please close the café before it gets dark.’

‘Look, it’s my business so I decide the opening hours.’ Budging results in nothing but a firmer, even painful grip. Withal, knowing the novel local woodcarver, panic does not set in as it would have had it been anyone else. Still, a meaningless glance sideways is picked up by Paddy as something which does hold significance, the stout old man already rising from his seat when a quick denying nod assures all is well. The command is tranquil yet effectively fierce. ‘Chris, let me go. You’re hurting me.’

As swift as lightning, digits unravel upon hearing the response and move away to create a distance filled by curious emotions that would hint at an intimacy going beyond what is truly present. ‘I’m sorry, he- we didn’t mean to... I- I mean, I didn’t mean to… to...’ A shivering sigh precedes a steadier repeated request, trying to move past the incident while remaining clearly doubtfully calculating of words and actions. ‘Y/N, please. Please close before it gets dark. We don’t- I want you to be safe.’

We? He? Why are you talking like this?

‘I’ll be regardless because there’s no ghost or monster that will slink down the hill to devour me.’ The remark tries to be amusingly sarcastic but it has no effect on the outcast whose grave expression does not change, continuing to stare remorsefully at the red band around the wrists.

The shaking fingers holding soft cotton meant for healing.

Yet ends up hurting.

‘Even if you don’t believe my reason nor the villagers’, close early.’ Lashes are brave enough to look up, keep up the pleading despite being refused over and over.

Maybe I should... no, what am I getting at. It’s just a story, a myth.

‘Can we stop talking about this?’ A palm finds the courage to rise and endeavour to nurse the split lip anew. ‘Sit still and let me help you.’

But soon retracts in heart-pounding concern when unspoken consent flinches as bodies come a wee bit closer to make it easier. ‘Are you alright?’

‘Yeah. Yeah, I am. Ehm,’ mocha locks confusedly and haphazardly glance around the terrace, questioning eyes flitting over the customers as a quite adorable big nose sniffs the air before leaning in to take a whiff, ‘Are you wearing perfume?’

‘No, why?’ The head buzzes with what to think of the weird gesture and unanswered inquiries about how the sudden change of topic has come about alongside the earlier talk in the third person. Brows furrow in wonder of the easiest topic for contemplation since perfume is fairly ineffective if unnecessary for the scent of coffee replaces the function on a daily basis.

‘Oh. Well- You- Never mind.’ A shadow movement forward remains just that, a hallucination without certainty. What is real, however, is the rapidity to get up and turn halfway away yet having the politeness to end the conversation by an unsettling awkward look over the shoulder. ‘I should go finish that pillar.’

‘But... your coffee?’ Christoper is already gone before the sentence can be finished, a gobsmacked offended finger pointing to the cooled cup on the counter containing liquid cold. In an instant, likely due to the great offence taken at letting such a precious gift to mankind waste away, the confusion of the chaotic farewell turns into a barista’s rage directed towards the woodcarver who has fled the scene. ‘The bastard just left the coffee to cool? That barbarian!’

The key turns in the lock, definitely closing business for the day. The moonlight falls in through the autumn leaves, casting moving shadows enhancing the dark of the dusk which has overtaken the quiet town. In the slightly clouded sky, the moon shines bright and illuminates the ruined haunted castle on the hill.

Y/N, please. Please close before it gets dark. We don’t- I want you to be safe.

‘I am completely fine. There’s nothing out here to get me. Also, who is ‘’we’’?’ Jeering strands shake in partial self-mockery at the brief spark of fear quickly running through veins at the recollection of the wish spoken in an oddly worried tone, foolishly spooked by mere folklore. ‘And here I thought you and I were the only sane people around, Chris. Guess it’s just me.’

After a final tug on the doorknob to ensure the place is neatly closed off until the dawn, sneakers start their wading path among the fallen mustard and ruby leaves that have been shaded a hue of onyx, tiger’s eye or plum in the twilight. The wind has calmed from its fierce mannerisms, now only softly blowing among the trees densely planted in the great park.

Carrying the sound of a low rumble as it smoothes over branches.

A snarl.

In the twilight silence another disconcerting noise resonates between carved pillars and trunks.

Padding.

A faint tinkling.

Of iron.

Shackles.

No, I must be hearing things. His and Paddy’s words are just getting to my head. There’s nothing. Nothing.

Withal, the bright amber lights are no will-o’-the-wisps and the appearing fur does not appear in the adorable shape of a squirrel. There is not the faintest trace of innocence to be found in the extraordinary meeting between a gigantic wolf cuffed by a firm iron collar around its neck, the broken chain clinking loudly as it drags over the ground and creates a hideous symphony in combination with the violent low growls of the beast.

‘That’s not possible. There’s no Warden, no wolf. This isn’t real.’ Even as the words are spoken in the futile hope of regaining a sense of logic, the conviction is hardly there. In fact, it is entirely absent. ‘This isn’t happening.’

Nevertheless, the snarled warning tone is too near, the impact too tangible in nerves standing on edge in alarm to dismiss the current situation as mental trickery. Especially because the silver light reflecting off of dagger-sharp canines comes too close for comfort, sending raggedly breathing feet fleeing to the wee café a few meters away while silently praying to reach it alive.

However, every rush forwards paradoxically yields nothing to a panicked mind who can feel warm predatory breath heat the back of the brown leather jacket and slowly rise to the back of the neck. Mortified tears start to brim in the corners of the eyes, damnably obscuring vision at a time when errors cannot be made for one, be it stumbling over a fallen branch or temporarily slowing down, will mean the end.

Christopher, Paddy, I’m sorry I didn’t listen. Youse were right and I’m a feckin eejit. I’m sorry. Chris, I’m sorry.

Growling grows ever closer, whispering of there being no escape because paws shall at one point do more than brush against ankles.

Rampant fingers search the pockets of jeans, cursing while feeling around the fabric for the damned key to open the lock to the safe haven.

Sneakers halt in front of the inaccessible door, still searching.

The wolf has slowed down, no longer running yet not giving up the chase now that the helpless prey has been forced into a corner. Big paws as black as a starless sky in winter pad languidly, bright eyes the colour of the pumpkin spice latte that forms the seasonal special obviously finding joy in the hunting game.

In toying with a hopeless target.

One step forwards.

One step back.

To and fro.

I can’t turn my back on it. Still, I have to if I want to get into the damned café. What do I do? What the fuck do I do?

The shivering spine is frozen in place thanks to paralysis due to pure horror, though digits carefully and hopefully unnoticeable continue rummaging through pockets as they keep a close watch on the impending beastly enemy.

Where the fu- By Jaysus, there it is!

Tense shoulders lower slightly in relief when the key is found on the bottom of the right pocket, the brief second of peace of mind carrying over in an unconscious sweetly delighted sigh.

Which evidently triggers the haste to attack because the sadistic game of threats is cut short as the wolf lunges forwards at the speed of lightning.

Fortunately, sharp-fanged jaws are evaded just in time when the key is rammed into the lock, opening the blasted barrier before slamming the door shut and sealing it off once again. All the while cursing Heaven and Hell together.

Hastily, steps lead around the tiny kitchen in search of anything to barricade the door with. An effort which proves fairly futile as basically all equipment is installed in such a manner it cannot be moved and all tables and chairs are kept outside since thieves do not tend to take furniture when on a heist around here.

Or such is the sentiment with which they are stored outside.

Why, of all the times, did I store them outside? Why couldn’t I at least put one table and chair inside? There has to be something around here, there’s got to be.

The fierce longing finds a wonderful answer in the old yet glistening iron chain lock that the former owner of the establishment used before getting proper locks installed and which has been stored away in the back of one of the counters. Sneaking glances to the amber-eyed predatory shadow roaming the terrace through the window of the main counter, horrified palms reach for the sole barrier between life and death.

Flinching back while hardly suppressing mortified screaming, allowing a meek gasp to escape, when the door leading to the hunting dark rattles as if a great weight has been thrown against it in an attempt to force it open. Blood rushing in the ears of accelerated breathing on the edge of breaking down backs away from the tightly sealed entrance, putting the key that was kept inside the lock into the pocket, shivering thanks to the ice veins have turned into.

Finding safety in the corner of the kitchen, wrapping arms around the knees that have fallen to the ground without muscles and pressing tears knowing this is the end of the line into stony grey denim.

Paddy... Christopher... Chris, I’m so sorry. I wish you were here. Fuck, I should’ve listened to ye instead of being such a gobshite.

The memorized phantom of lush lips take a shivering figure soon to meet death into sturdy woodcarving arms dusted over with soft thin black hair, head resting against the secure chest that has been healed from sickly bruises, bleeding bullet wounds, fresh deep dagger scars or a combination of all. Because, despite the chastisements each time the curious artists shows up at the café in a worsened condition, there remains the recalled moments of mocha locks helping in dealing with difficult customers and men trying their futile luck by going too far. Christopher had been there at an oddly fascinated barista’s side, leaving as little distance between bodies as possible while snarling in warning of touching the boundaries of patience so desperate men would see their chances ruined and people complaining about the pettiest things would know the customer is not always king.

Day in, day out. From the moment the café opens until it closes, staying close by while creating the gorgeously engraved pillars dotting the landscape.

Sometimes even walking homewards together, wordlessly refusing to part ways before having made sure the sole girl in town not distrustful towards an “outsider” has arrived safely and only then cracking on to the personal roof. When not doing so, it is towards working places set in nature, enjoying the hush of the morning as the sun rises in the golden sky.

Hands used to meaninglessly brush against each other.

At some point, it has become a habit to hold his pinky from the moment of being picked up without an explicit arrangement until the destination is reached.

In blissful small talk or a comfortable silence.

I wish you were here. See you one last time.

But death is lonesome in the growling silence of the lush park.

#ksmutclub #Werewolf AU #Bangchan smut #Bangchan #Bang Chan #Chan #Chris Bang #Stray Kids #SKZ

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