Thinking about retired!reader who occasionally visits base to check in with price, and of course you bring your not-ptsd dog with you.
A huge dog, a mutt of some kind but the vet said she was part great dane, she was a rescue you got after getting out and realizing living alone was not good for your mental health. Her name is goose and you love her.
She also, coincidentally, has been accidentally trained to handle your ptsd and severe anxiety. Goose, with all the love in her heart, does everything to help people who are stressed.
"Whoah! Uh– friendly dog, huh?" Which means you know exactly why she's currently trying to push gaz to the floor. He stands with his hands raised, unsure where to put them, brows pinched in mild panic "she doesn't bite, does she?"
"No, she does not." You chuckle, but make no moves to stop her from bullying gaz to sit down on the sofa. You take the chance to inspect him, johns favorite soldier from what you gather. Young, handsome, but he's got bags under his eyes and nails bitten to the quick. "You can pet her."
"She seems more interested in petting me." Gaz quips as goose does her best to climb into his lap and crush his legs. You love when she does this, the weight of her is grounding on your bad days. Though...gaz does seem a bit smaller. You hope she doesn't hurt him.
"Ah, she likes you, kid." You grunt, sitting down next to him and scratching under gooses chin. You note that gaz has calmed down, hands resting in her fur as he lies back into the sofa.
You're not sure how much time you spend there, letting goose snuffle and lick kyles hands. But he never asks to get up, so you don't make her.
It isn't until price texts you that you stand with a groan, back popping with a stretch. Goose perks up and ambles off the couch, offering gaz a final lick under his chin.
"Oh– uh– will...Will you be back?" Kyle asks, standing too quick. He looks at you, but he lingers next to goose, eyes darting down to her then back. Endearing.
"Sure, kid, I'll be back." You agree, though you originally had no plans to. Goose seems to have found her latest project, and who are you to deny your dog?
....besides, it helps that her new favorite soldier is a handsome little fellow too.
Simon Riley. Imposing, brooding, skilled soldier of the 141. He was revered for his skill, feared for it even more. One look from him could make the hairs on even John Price's neck stand on end. That's why you were the most baffling thing the team had ever encountered.
It was already strange enough for Simon to be in a long-term relationship. The team swears they never see him off base unless it's for operations or going to the bar with them. Somehow, some way, he ended up with you on his arm. They met you by chance when you came in to bring Simon some lunch.
"Excuse me?" Kyle looks up from his files, eyes widening a little when he sees you. "I must've gotten lost, I'm looking for Mr. Riley's office." You admit a bit bashful as you held a bag in your hands.
"Simon? You're looking for Simon?" You almost jump when you hear a voice beside you, looking to see a mohawked man with a huge smile. This must be Johnny, you remembered Simon complaining about his "stupid hair."
"I am! I'm his partner." Johnny blinks in surprise at that but recovers quickly. "Can you show me where his office is?" Kyle beat him to it, placing a respectful hand on your upper arm.
"Of course, love! Wouldn't be a problem at all." He assures smoothly as he guides you further down the hall to the left. You were the opposite of Simon. Softer, a little older, with bright clothes, a brighter smile, and a spring in your step. When Kyle knocks on the office door, Simon gruffly invites the two of you inside.
"Hi, sweetheart!" Simon looks up from his computer with wide eyes, smiling underneath his mask as he stands up. "You left your lunch this morning! Didn't you see the note I left you, baby?" You gently chide him as you set down his lunch box and pull him into a kiss.
"I must've missed it, love. I'm sorry." Simon murmurs against your lips, shooting Kyle a downright venomous look over your head. The Sargeant took the cue and quickly left the office.
"Sit down, baby. I missed you." You coo softly, taking off his mask gently and setting it aside. "There's my baby boy... aren't you sweet." You coo as you guide him back into his desk chair. He gradually melts at your words as you pull up a chair beside him.
"Mommy, I'm at work.." He protests slightly as he glances at the door.
"Is it wrong for me to feed my baby? It's not like I'm breastfeeding you. You only need that at night." Simon flushes even darker, and you can't help but grin. "Oh relax, baby boy, and open up." You encourage as you open up the salad you made.
Summary Denji’s all pent up after he read a magazine and comes to you for help.
Warnings older reader , hand job , inexperienced Denji , lap sitting , Denji doesn’t last long , rubbing , gentle reader , size difference (?) , praise
Denji sat on your lap, feet dangling off the end of the sofa that was in your dim lit office, the room was quiet, the only sound being your soft breaths and Denjis rambling.
“It’s just - that stupid magazine!” He groans squirming his legs a little bit at the feeling of your hand rubbing soft circles on his thigh, slowly moving up to his inner.
He let out a relaxed sigh, “cmon’ I’ll help.” You tell him looking over his embarrassed expression.
He was all pent up, too inexperienced and nervous to do anything himself. His porno magazine got him all worked up so he came to you, he could always trust you! Whining and over exaggerating about how he’s been hard foreverrrr poor boy thought you could please his body, out of all the people he could’ve went to.
It made you grin, when he walked in your office with his eyebrows furrowed in stress, on the verge of tears and covering his crotch with his hands. As much as you loved seeing him like this you made him calm down, running your fingers through his hair murmuring you’ll make him feel good.
Denji nods waiting to be told what to do. “Lift up.” Gently tugging his pants down with his boxers just above his knees his hard cock springs out hitting his stomach. You wrap your hand around the flesh slowly stroking him, Denji was so sensitive he was already a whining mess, trying to keep quiet causing breathy moans to escape his lips.
He melts into you, head resting against your shoulder taking peaks at your hand and his sex. Pulling back to watch his face contort in pleasure, making sure he wasn’t in any discomfort you continue your steady pace of stroking.
Denji felt so much more comfortable in your embrace it felt so surreal to him. Around others that would get touchy with him, kiss or rub up against him without asking he got all tensed up and scared. With you it felt good, especially the size of your hand, bigger than his and the way it wrapped around his dick so perfectly. Your voice, stoic but comforting, talking him through everything you’re doing.
You run your thumb over his tip, precum oozing out, his thighs jerk at the sensation. Grip tightening every few strokes.
The way he grabs onto your shirt and nuzzles his face in your neck makes you slow down. You honestly couldn’t tell if he was about to cry or about to cum, maybe both. “Denji.” You say tilting his head away from you.
“Keep going!” He whines mad that you got so slow to almost stopping. With a scoff but grin you start your steady, faster pace of stroking until his legs start to tremble. His hand grips on your shirt and arm so hard you were sure there would be nail markings. He squeezes his eyes shut when he ejaculates on his stomach, some getting on his thighs and your hand.
Pumping your hand up and down still, coating his dick in his fluids. Denji lets out a strangled whimper tugging on your wrists feeling oh so overwhelmed and sensitive.
No, you weren’t expecting him to last long but you also weren’t expecting him to want more. Denji felt your bulge press against his ass through your pants. He knew he couldn’t take you just yet, soon he would though and oh did he look forward to it.
Reaching over to wipe the cum off your hand Denji shakes his hand pulling you back into him. “‘m more.” Tilting your head with a small grin thinking if he could take anymore. “Yeah?” You question grabbing his dick again already slick with cum.
He groans trying to roll his hips into your hand, your free hand holding his hips down, forcing him to take your slower pace. “y/n… faster!” He grumbles throwing his head back then rolling it to rest on you. Feeling his cock twitch against your palm it was obvious he wasn’t lasting much longer.
Keeping the slow pace that felt like torture to Denji you start rolling your hips getting the sweet friction from Denjis ass. You had the same thoughts as he did. You knew he couldn’t take it but oh he would soon, and you were looking forward to it.
“You’re doing so good handsome” Closing his eyes at your praise you leave gentle kisses on his eyelid… then nose… then corner of his mouth.
Your lips lingered on his skin, he wanted to stay right here, with your arms holding him all the time. “When— when can we” Denji trails off getting lost in the feeling of your hand. “When what baby?” You ask already knowing what he’s about to bring up.
His hair tickles your chin when he nestles into your chest. “Ugh can we do more?” Denji huffs out. Kissing the top of his head you nod. “When you’re ready.”
You pump your hand up and down quicker making him moan arching his back. His stomach tenses all up as he cums once again on your hand, still stroking him through his high, chest heaving, a sweaty mess and small whines.
After he calms down, you get him cleaned up. He wanted to stay and lounge in your office while you did whatever but he forced his legs to move. “Can always come to me, Denji.” You state before he walks off sleepy but also a small smile on his face.
$ log - you’re a very disgruntled sheriff, tired of a repeating offender trespassing. so, you decide to give dean winchester a proper reminder of how the heavy the law feels.
$ warn --nsfw --dark --dubcon --older!amab!reader --dom!top!reader --sheriff!reader --mean!reader --sub!bot!dean --bratty!dean --power-dynamics --older-man-younger-man --age-gap --size-diff-kink --sex-on-the-impala --bondage(handcuffs) --anal --cum-as-lube --spanking --rough --overstim --finger-sucking --sleazy --begging --titles(sir) --authority-abuse --orgasm-denial --sex-tape-hinted -butt-plug-mentioned-once --youre-practically-breeding-him --pretty-crier --dirty-talk --praise --degradation --no-aftercare
$ wc -w 3.3k
$ cd masterlist / jensen-ackles
The blue and red strobes of your cruiser cut through the heavy darkness of the outskirts, casting long, rhythmic shadows against the rusted chain link fence.
You watch through the windshield, a tired smirk tugging at your lips, as a figure tumbles over the top, landing in a clumsy heap on the dirt. You don't even wait for him to brush the dust off his jacket before you've swung the door open, the heavy crunch of your boots on the gravel sounding like a death knell.
You catch him by the scruff of his jacket before he can even scramble to his feet, your grip iron tight as you wrench his arms behind his back. The harsh, white glare of your headlights hits his face, and you recognise that insufferable, cocky expression immediately.
It’s Winchester. Again.
The tickets haven't worked, the formal warnings have been ignored, and the reports are just piling up on your desk like a testament to his stubbornness. This brat thinks he can just dance around the law, playing the part of the untouchable rebel, but he’s about to learn that the law has a very physical way of enforcing its boundaries.
Without a word of warning, you shove him forward, forcing him down until his chest hits the warm metal of the Impala's bonnet. He stumbles, a startled "Hey!" escaping him, but you don't give him a second to recover.
You pin him there, the weight of your authority pressing down on him, and you know that tonight, the paperwork is done. Tonight, you're going to give him a lesson he won't be able to write off so easily.
Bent over his hood, sirens colouring the bare treeline, and he wasn’t even a tad scared. In fact he was quite proud - this’ll be another grand story to brag about. He glances over his shoulder at your disgruntled look, shaking his hips with a tease.
"What are you gonna do, old man? Arrest me again? Fuck me?" Dean sneers, leaning back against the Impala with that insufferable, cocky grin.
You don't even give him the satisfaction of a smile. You wrench his wrists behind his back, the metal cuffs biting into his skin with a sharp click. As you roughly undo his trousers, you look him dead in the eye, voice flat and dangerous. "That’s exactly what I’m going to do. The ticket machine is broken; this will have to do."
The smugness vanishes instantly. He freezes, eyes wide as he stares at you, the reality of your intent finally sinking in. "Wait are you serious? You're actually — " He cuts himself off with a sharp gasp as you push his face down against the hot metal of the bonnet.
"Hey! Watch the hair, you old bastard!" he yelps, his voice cracking as he tries to regain some semblance of dignity.
You don't let him. You grab a thick fistful of his hair, yanking his head back so he’s forced to look at the dark sky, before shoving his face back down into the paint. "Shut up, Winchester. You've been a very loud, very annoying trespasser. It's time you learned some goddamn respect," you growl, your voice dripping with authority.
Smack!
The heavy sting of your palms against his bare, pale ass makes him jump, a muffled "Fuck!" escaping him.
"You think you're so tough, don't you?" you sneer, leaning over him, your heat radiating against his trembling skin. "But right now, you're just a brat who needs to be put in his place," you growl, your voice thick with a hunger that makes his breath hitch.
You don't wait for a retort.
You're already hard. You’re so goddamn easy, but can you blame yourself? The sight in front of you was gorgeous: Dean bent over his beloved car, fumbling at his cockiness while his cute ass sticks just easy for the taking.
Your cock’s leaking pre-cum that drips onto the metal of the Impala. You wrap your hand around yourself, a few rough, desperate strokes to ease the ache before you do leak, painting his trembling, pale arse in thick, hot streaks of cum.
So damn easy. Long night, sheriff, just been’a long night, and a long week.
"God, damn —" Dean stammers, his snarky bravado fracturing into a series of breathless, incoherent sounds. He tries to pull his head up, to find that defiant glint in his eyes again. "You think — you think a little jizz and — and a few spanks makes you the boss? You're still just an old —"
"An old what, Winchester?" you cut him off, your voice a low, dangerous rumble. You scoop up a handful of your own warm, sticky cum, prodding your fingers into his tight, twitching hole to coat him thoroughly.
The sensation of him clenching around your digits makes your vision swim.
Dean huffs, trying to sound indignant even as his voice trembles and his hips instinctively tilt back toward your touch. "Just — just get on with it! Stop playing with me!"
"Patience, boy," you growl, the sound vibrating deep in your chest as you angle your tip to his hole. You savour the tiny whimpers as you tease — you know damn well he’s fighting against himself to just beg for it.
Slow and steady was the way you’d decided to push in, but perhaps that was the worser option.
"Mmhm, fuck —" he groans languidly into the metal of the bonnet, his eyes rolling to his skull as he's filled to the brim. "God you're — you're too big! You're gonna break me, you crazy ol’ bastard — gah!”
"Shut your mouth and take it," you growl, your voice a low, predatory rumble. You don't give him a second to adjust to the sheer, stretching girth of you. You begin to move, your hips pushing into his ass with a rhythmic, punishing force that makes the entire Impala shudder.
"Oh god," Dean’s snarky bravado is completely gone now, replaced by desperate, high pitched moans that he tries and fails to swallow. "Is this — is this part of the — the fine? You're fuckin’ killing me —"
"Consider it a lifetime subscription to my personal attention, then," you growl, your voice thick with lust as you drive into him again, harder this time, making his entire frame shudder against the Impala.
You reach down, grabbing his chin to force his head up just enough so he has to feel the vibration of your voice against his skin. "You wanted to play rough, Winchester? You wanted to see what an 'old man' could do? Well, here it is. Every inch of me, claiming every inch of you."
"Fuck — fuck —" Dean gasps, his head lulling back as your girth stretches him to the absolute limit. The snark is almost entirely gone, replaced by a raw, desperate need. "You're — you're a goddamn animal —" he manages to choke out, his voice a wrecked, breathless mess. "Just, don't stop — don't you dare stop."
The sound of your hips hitting his arse is a wet, heavy slap that never stops. You aren't being gentle; you're driving that massive, thick cock of yours into him like you're trying to split him in half.
Every time you lunge, your girth wedges itself so deep into his tight, puckered hole that he lets out a choked sound, his whole body jerking forward against the metal of the Impala.
He looks fucking wrecked, his eyes rolled back in his head and his mouth hanging open, completely mindless because his brain can't even handle how much of you is shoved inside him. He’s just a mess of spit and tears, staring at nothing because you’ve stuffed him so full he can’t think.
Jesus, you think, your teeth gritting as you watch your cock slide in and out of him. The sight is fucking hypnotic, the way his skin stretches and pulls around your thick, heavy head with every brutal lunge. If he had a pussy, you'd have knocked him up real quick, you think, a dark, hungry heat blooming in your gut.
That tight little hole of his is making you delirious; you're just as gone as he is, lost in the sheer rhythm of breaking him.
"Look at you, sport," you growl, leaning down to his shoulder. "Fucked so hard you can't even remember your own goddamn name, can you?" You don't wait for an answer. You just drive that thick, heavy length back into him, bottoming out so hard his entire frame lurches.
He’s babbling, an incoherent mess of "sorry, sir — please — sorry," his voice cracking as he fumbled against the bonnet.
"You like trespassing, don't you, boy?" you sneer, your voice dripping with condescension as you pull back almost all the way, letting the cool air hit his stretched, wet hole before driving back in. "You like thinking you can just wander wherever you want, disobeying every little rule? You think you're too big for the law to handle?"
Every lunge is slow, deliberate, and fucking brutal. You aren't rushing; you're making sure he feels every goddamn inch of your heavy self as it slides in, pressing snug against his insides.
You want him to feel the exact moment your head wedges deep into his gut.
"Look at me when you're getting handled like this," you bark, grabbing his chin to force his tear streaked face toward yours. "Don't you dare look away. You're a delinquent, and it's time you learned some respect for your elders."
He can barely keep his eyes open, his head lolling as he lets out a broken, high pitched mewl. "No, sir — please — so big," he whimpers, the words barely intelligible through the sheer sensation of you filling him.
You cum deep inside him, a hot, thick flood of seed pumping into his core, filling him to the absolute brim. You can feel his insides spasming, clenching around your girth in a desperate, attempt to milk every last drop.
"There," you grunt, your voice thick with satisfaction as you hold yourself deep inside him, letting him feel the heavy, warm weight of your release. "Now you've got a real reason to remember the law, you little brat."
You aren't done with him. You're going to milk every last drop of submission out of that brat.
Even as your seed floods his insides, you don't pull out. You keep your hips moving, a heavy, relentless rhythm that forces him to endure the sensation of your thick, leaking cock sliding through your own warm release inside his tight, aching walls. The wet, slapping sound of your pelvis hitting his ass is constant, a rhythmic reminder of who owns him.
You glance down and see his cock, neglected and twitching, leaking a mess of pre cum all over the hood of the Impala. He lets out a desperate, choked sound, his hips bucking instinctively, trying to find some friction, some relief.
"Look at that," you growl, watching the thick, white cream overflow from his puckered, overstretched hole and drip down his trembling thighs, staining the rim of his own goddamn car. "You're leaking all over your own ride, you little delinquent. Can't even hold a single drop of the law inside you, can you?"
You don't slow down.
If anything, the slickness of the cum makes you even more aggressive. You're fucking him with a wet, slapping intensity, the sound of your cock sliding through the overflow making a disgusting, slurping noise that echoes in the quiet night. Every time you bottom out, you can feel the excess fluid being forced back in, only to squirt back out the second you pull back for the next lunge.
He's a total wreck, his voice nothing but a series of broken, high pitched whimpers and pathetic, wet sobs. "Please, sir, it's too much — so much —" he gasps.
He's completely at your mercy, his body reacting to the sheer, unyielding weight of you even as he begs for a break he isn't going to get.
"Too much?" you chuckle, a low, mean sound that vibrates through his spine. "You haven't seen anything yet, brat. You wanted to play in the wrong territory, now you're gonna take every goddamn bit of what comes with it."
You don't stop. You keep thrusting into him, the sound of your cock sliding through the thick, white mess of his own leaking insides making a disgusting, slurping noise. You reach down, your fingers slick and heavy with the overflow, and you scoop up a handful of your own warm cum from where it's dripping off his thighs.
With a mean smirk, you bring your hand up to his face. He looks up at you, eyes glazed and pathetic, and you shove your fingers, coated in that thick cream, straight past his trembling lips. Dean doesn't even fight it; he just opens up like a hungry, desperate puppy, his tongue swirling around your fingers, suckling at the taste of you with a mindless need.
"That's it, attaboy. Clean it all up," you murmur, watching him desperately try to swallow every drop of your essence. The sight of him, so broken and submissive, makes your blood boil with a fresh wave of lust. You can't help yourself; you want to see just how much of him you can dominate.
You pull your fingers from his mouth, leaving him gasping and dripping, and then you shove them into his throat.
He's so small compared to you, his throat constricting around your thick digits as he chokes, his eyes watering as he struggles to breathe.
You love the way he looks completely overwhelmed, his body reacting to the sheer size of your palm as it wraps around his throat, making him feel like he's being swallowed whole.
"You're just a little thing, aren't you?" you growl, your thumb pressing hard to force a choked, desperate sound from his lungs.
You can feel the frantic pulse in his neck thrumming against your skin, a rhythmic, terrified beat that only makes you want to squeeze harder. He's gagging on your fingers, his eyes rolling back as he tries to reconcile the sensation of being choked with the heavy, rhythmic pounding still happening in his arse.
He's caught between two kinds of ruin, and he's taking every bit of it like the good, obedient little delinquent he is.
"Look at you," you mutter, watching a string of saliva and cum stretch between his lips as he tries to catch his breath. "Completely owned. From your mouth to your ass. You're a fucking mess, Winchester."
You don't let him recover. While your fingers are busy stretching his throat and making him gag, you drive your hips forward in a devastating lunge. The impact is so heavy it makes the whole Impala rock on its suspension.
Heavy-hitter.
You bottom out with a force that feels like it's bruising his very soul, your massive cock burying itself so deep in his leaking, cum filled hole that there's no space left between you.
He lets out a muffled, strangled cry against your hand, a sound of pure, unadulterated ruin, as he's caught between the choking pressure in his throat and the overwhelming fullness in his gut.
"Don't you dare get greedy," you growl, your voice a low, commanding rasp. You reach down, not to stroke him, but to firmly press his hips down harder against the metal. "I'm not touching your cock, sport. You take it like a champ and you cum like one. You don't need a hand when you've got me filling you up like this, do you?"
Dean lets out a broken, high pitched sob, the sound of a man completely undone.
Pretty, shimmering tears track down his cheeks, smearing against the hot paint of the car as he whimpers, "Please, sir, please, just — sir —" He’s practically begging, his body trembling with the unfulfilled ache of his ignored cock and the overwhelming sensation of you continuing to hammer into him.
Smack! Smack!
Two heavy, stinging spanks to his reddened arse cut his pleas short, forcing a startled gasp from his lungs. You lean down, your mouth hovering just inches from his ear, your breath hot and smelling of lust.
"Hush now," you cooed, lowly. "Only need those pretty sounds outta you. Keep the whining for when you're actually in trouble. Right now, you're just being a good, quiet boy for me, aren't you?"
You watch with dark satisfaction as Dean tries to swallow his sobs, his breath coming in ragged, uneven hitches, his body forced into a state of pure, mindless receptivity.
He’s completely at your mercy, a broken, beautiful mess of a man, and as you continue to fuck into him, you know he won't be thinking about trespassing for a long, long time. He'll only be thinking about the weight of your hand, the heat of your cock, and the way you made him beg.
The morning sun bleeds through the dusty windows of the Impala, stinging Dean’s eyes as he groans, his consciousness returning in heavy, painful waves. His first sensation is the ache a deep, throbbing soreness in his hips and a raw, stinging heat in his arse that makes every slight movement feel like a monumental task.
He tries to roll over, but his body feels heavy, uncoordinated, and utterly spent. As he shifts, he realises with a jolt of disorientation that he’s lying face down in the backseat, his hips propped up at an awkward, vulnerable angle, his trousers pooled around his ankles.
The reality of the night before hits him like a physical blow. He remembers the heat of the bonnet, the heavy, rhythmic thrusting of your hips, the way you’d gripped his throat, and the sheer, overwhelming weight of you claiming him.
His eyes wander blindly to the seat pocket beside his face, finding a crumpled citation and a small, plastic tape reel. The label on the tape is written in your sharp, authoritative scrawl:
How the Law Works.
It’s a mockery, a dirty piece of evidence that turns his humiliation into a public record, a grim sex tape disguised as official body cam footage.
Beside it, the citation sits, but it's not just a list of infractions. There's a handwritten note scrawled in the margin, the ink dark and mocking:
Consider the plug a memoir, Winchester.
A little something to keep you full of me, and of the law until you learn to behave.
The realisation of the note sends a fresh wave of heat rushing to his face, a mix of shame and a terrifying, involuntary arousal. He reaches back, his fingers trembling as they brush against the cold, hard base of the plug still slotted deep inside him.
He stares at the tape reel, the thought of anyone anyone at all watching the footage of him being broken, of him whimpering "yes, sir" while you fucked him into the metal of his own car, making his head spin.
It wasn't just a punishment; it was a total deconstruction of everything he thought he was. He wasn't the rebel, the hunter just a messy, overstimulated boy who couldn't keep his hands off the wrong things.
He tries to shift his weight to sit up, but the movement causes the heavy plug to shift deep within his bruised walls, sending a jolt of unbidden pleasure and sharp ache straight to his core. He lets out a choked, pathetic sound, his forehead dropping back onto the leather seat.
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger
⤿ synopsis: you help keep pittsburgh trauma orderly—until small, unsettling glitches hint at something ominous unraveling. whether the mystery—or your guarded heart—breaks first is the question that will decide everything.
⤿ warning(s): ⚠️ check chapters for individual warnings ⚠️
Fluff, needy yandere, age difference, slightly suggestive content
He was just some dumb kid who played with fire.
Before he knew it, he was getting his ass kicked by the real deal, the big time guys.
He dropped your name out of pure desperation. He had no clue who you were really. He just wanted to save his own skin.
He never expected you to actually show up.
In your white tailored suit, you were like some mafioso guardian angel.
You tilted his chin up to face you and he couldn't bear to meet your eyes. You were goddamn terrifying.
"This little punk says he's one of mine?"
You lazily blew your cigar smoke into his face. It was black cherry, high class stuff. He can still remember the taste of it on his tongue, the way it made his whole body tingle.
He thought he was done for. You were probably gonna set your own guys on him for dropping names he had no business knowing.
He never expected you to save him.
His beat down gurus were cussing up a storm, saying he practically maimed one of their guys, he wouldn't even be able to walk for a week.
What bullshit. The most he did was give the guy a shiner before he was getting his own ass kicked.
You smiled at him then, like you knew exactly how much crap they were spewing.
You nodded and your guys threw a fat stack of cash on the table. All 100s. God, there must have been at least 5k just sitting there.
You hauled him to his feet and that's when he realised you were stronger than you looked too.
"Why?"
He barely even managed to ask that.
You were trying to light a new cigar and get back in your fancy car, but your lighter was just throwing up sparks.
He found himself reaching into his pocket and pulling out his shitty gas station lighter. He struck a flame and held it out to you.
You leaned in and caught his eyes for the second time that night. The flame was dancing in your eyes and you looked just like the devil.
He was sunk right then and there and he knew it.
He showed up outside your office everyday, waiting with his lighter clasped in his sweaty palm.
Everyday without fail, you would give him a chance to light one of your smokes for you.
"Don't you got someplace better to be kid?"
"No ma'am."
And he kept doing it, rain or shine or snow. On bad days, he'd bring his umbrella and unfurl it for you before you even stepped out of the car.
"You shouldn't keep hanging around kid. It ain't safe."
"I know ma'am."
He stayed, despite the dirty looks from the gangsters, despite the way they bumped into him hard enough to bruise. He stayed, stubborn as a goddamn mule, until you gave up on getting rid of him.
"I got a job for you kid."
"Anything you ask ma'am."
Oh he was a sucker for you. You had him hook, line and sinker without even trying.
And he worked hard. Running errands and then pushing drugs and then beating down the folks you set him loose on. There weren't any limits anymore, no line he wouldn't cross for you.
After a while, you let him in your guard rotation. And he was in bliss. He watched you constantly.
Hell, he couldn't take his eyes off you even if he wanted to. The capo himself said he was impressed with his diligence.
"Come here kid. You ever had oysters before?'
"No ma'am."
You were in one of your favourite restaurants, finishing up your meal and just drunk enough to have given yourself a pretty flush across your cheeks.
You made him lean toward you and gripped his chin before tilting the oyster into his mouth. It was salty and soft and his mind was going awful dirty awful fast.
After that he would order oysters whenever he could. He could almost feel your fingers on his skin when he ate them.
And soon he was part of your interrogation crew. His shirt sleeves rolled up and his forearms splattered with blood. He was putting on muscle now too and his punch hurt worse than a hammer to the face.
One unlucky son of a bitch made the mistake of insulting you right in front of him. God help him, when the anger cleared, the man's face was nothing more than pulp.
And you were watching him. One arm crossed under your breasts with the other balanced on it, a cigarette held up to your lips.
"You're a real good guard dog, you know that kid?"
"Thank you ma'am."
The next time you summoned him, you were in your office. Your heels were off and your legs were crossed, your stockings showing off the curves of your feet.
"Grab that pen for me."
It was on the floor under a side table and he had to get down on his knees to get it. When he moved to stand, you interrupted him.
"Don't get up. But bring it here."
"Yes ma'am."
He was grinning like a dog in heat. He put the pen in between his teeth and crawled on his hands and knees to you.
He sat at your feet like a goddamn puppy, his boner so fucking hard he thought it would rip through his trousers.
You cupped his chin in your palm and looked down at him. From down here, your legs looked a mile long and he wanted to lick every inch.
"You're such a loyal little thing, you know that?"
"Ysss mmm."
It was muffled because he still had that fucking pen in his mouth. And he was damn thankful for it too. Without something to bite onto, he was sure he'd actually be panting.
You took it carefully out of his mouth. A string of saliva followed it and you twitched your thumb across his lips to break the connection.
"Good boy."
You turned away from him, shaking the pen off a little and getting back to the books you were balancing.
He whimpered.
He actually fucking whimpered.
You smirked a little at that and shooed him away with one perfectly manicured hand. He dragged his feet walking out of there, his boner killing all higher thinking. Just hoping and praying you would call him back.
He turned to look at you before he closed the door. You had your face resting in one hand and you were tapping the pen against your lips with the other. Your eyes were entirely focused on your books.
And he felt it all over again. He was sunk - hook, line and sinker.
summary: an older deer demon arrives at the hotel and alastor starts getting pissy. the stag doesn't seem to understand the extent of how pissy he can be.
warnings/tags: one-sided enemies-to-lovers, age gap, mlm, cannibalism, canon-typical violence, problematic language, valentino, internalized homophobia, sadomasochism, manipulation, sexual topics, occasional canon-divergence, talk of mating, sex-favorable alastor, reader is larger than alastor | not proof-read and will be rewritten later
pairing/s: alastor x male! stag! reader
⸸ HOOVES CLICKED gently on the sidewalk of Pentagram City, the stag's eyes narrowed on the flier that had gotten stuck on his antlers mere moments prior.
The Hazbin Hotel, a passion project of the princess meant to rehabilitate the citizens of hell. Most found the idea ridiculous especially after that ridiculous interview on 666 News earlier that week, he'd seen the fight between the reporter and the princess on the picture box before the cameras cut and switched to a rather lewd advertisement for a strip club. Degenerates, thought the demon as small groups parted to make room for him to pass.
Usually he wouldn't bother to pay attention to such frivolous nonsense but the recent threat of the sooner extermination was quite the motivator for escape. Folding the flier into a neat square, the stag slid it into his breast pocket and crossed his arms behind his back with a hum of satisfaction and his head held high. He at least had to look dignified on his way to a place lacking such! The foul stench from the city eventually faded the closer he wandered to the hotel just on the outskirts of the metropolis.
All this redemption business seemed like the dream of a child searching for friendship in the worst of places, but how could oneself judge as they stepped right on their doorstep?
Knock...Knock...Knock
His knuckles rapped gently against the fine wood of the door before returning to his back. This is below me. As the seconds passed, the stag's apprehension slowly shifted into annoyance with each moment it took for someone to offer entry, his ear twitching as his face hardened. With a disappointed huff, his hand raised once more to knock only for the doorway to be eagerly swung open by a smiling blonde with rosy cheeks. Charlotte Morningstar's appearance alone certainly lived up to her naive outlook on life. Her excited gasp broke through what would've been an awkward silence as her hands shot out to grasp the older gentleman's.
"Oh, hello! I'm Charlie and welcome to the Happy- I mean- the Hazbin Hotel," chirped the eager young woman with sparkling ruby eyes, "Are you here to be a guest?" The stag blinked his e/c eyes in mild surprise at the princess' sweet tone, before clearing his throat and bowing his head in a gentle show of respect.
"Ah, yes! My name is [Reader], it's lovely to meet you, ma chère." His transatlantic accent warmed his words, the term of endearment seeming all the more charming. "Oh- It's lovely to meet you too! Come in, come in!" Charlie didn't waste a moment dragging him into the lobby of the hotel where four other demons were strewn about and doing their own thing. One of them stood out to him, the spider he recognized from that disgusting advertisement he'd seen earlier that week! Is he also trying to be redeemed? Good on him, I suppose.
The blonde demoness released her hold on the stag's hooved hands as she cleared her throat to gesture grandly at the decrepit building.
"Welcome officially to the Hazbin Hotel, a place where we can rehabilitate sinners! As you know," she motioned to herself with a smile, "I'm Charlie; founder of the hotel!" A moth demon walked up beside her with a suspicious expression but was pulled into an embrace by the princess before a word could even grace her lips. "This is Vaggie -- hotel manager and my girlfriend --, the man behind the bar over there is Husk -- the bartender --, the small girl over there is Nifty -- our cleaner and she's mostly harmless-" He looked at the small cyclops, whom was going at him with a glistening eye and flushed cheeks.
"Bad boy..." she rasped in awe which caused the stag to scoff in amusement, "Un mauvais mâle?" Nifty's eye only seemed to grow larger as she skittered her way up [Reader]'s body to grasp the edges of his suit, causing his head to rear back from the startle. "Never leave me."
Nifty and [Reader] maintained awkward eye contact until Vaggie cleared her throat & approached with her arms folded over her chest just as the little bug woman jumped off of [Reader] and skitters out of the room. "Alright... Anyways, who are you and why are you here?" asked the moth demon, a brow raised in suspicion.
A pleasant smile returned to the stag's snout.
"My name is [Reader], again, and I'm here to try out all this redemption business! I saw your advertisement on the picture box earlier during the week. Though, I must say I only saw enough to know our princess here can throw down as you all say!" A skittish laugh emanated from the princess.
The effeminate spider from the bar strutted his way over to the small group with a pink tropical-themed drink in hand, leaning on [Reader]'s shoulder with what one could only assume to be a seductive grin on his soft face.
"Well hello there, handsome.." he purred just as Charlie gestured to him. "Ahem, as you might know this is An-" "Angel Dust: the top pornsta' in all of hell, baby!" Angel interrupted with a wink, tracing [Reader]'s jawline with a finger to guide their faces closer together. "So, what's a guy gotta do to get a virile buck like you in the sheets?"
Harlot. With a tight smile and his ears pinned back, [Reader] briskly removed himself from the womanish male. "Oh hoho, no, I'd never sleep with you! Ever."
"I'd second that notion!"
A radioesque voice penetrated the uncomfortable conversation with all the pizzazz of someone with the absolute right to interrupt anyone they want. Turning his head, the stag made direct eye contact with a red-haired buck with large yellowed fangs and -- almost humiliatingly -- small antlers. He couldn't help but tilt his head in curiosity when the shorter male's ears swiveled backwards and his crimson eyes narrowed slightly.
"Ooh, yes! Alastor, perfect timing," cheered the princess as she dragged the elder gentleman over to the glaring buck with her usual perpetual excitement. "Alastor, this is [Reader]: our newest patron! [Reader], this is Alastor: our facility manager here at the hotel!--"
"Otherwise known as THE Radio Demon," Vaggie stepped beside Charlie to shift her away from the aforementioned figure. "Do not make a deal with him and do not cause harm to the hotel; follow those rules and we should get along just fine." The growing sound of static replaced the initial conversation only to soon be replaced by the clearing of a throat and [Reader]'s warm voice, "Well I'm certain I shall not need a deal with anyone in this hotel, my deer! I swear by it." Her stern expression shifted into a firm glare towards Alastor, who merely glanced away in faux innocence at the very obvious warning.
This is going to be quite the bother...
OH DEER...
"I'm sure this charming fellow can attest to that." Alastor simply gave a quiet hum of what could've been disinterest in the older man, but no one quite caught the indescribable glint in his crimson eyes the longer he stared.
Watching Charlie lead the tall figure upstairs with a tirade of excitement, the radio demon simply phased into the shadows as always, a loud crackle being left in his wake.
word count: 1228
this story is being written for fun and is not in any way, shape, nor form meant to be anything but silly canon fodder for me! i might write a part 2 later on if i think its deserving of one.
