The Otherworld

Det. Rosa Murray has worked dozens of undercover ops in her career. She's faced down vampires at a gala with only her high heels for a weapon, gathered intel while surrounded by werewolves on a camping trip, and even, in one memorable instance, somehow convinced a group of demons to give up the location of a stash house through months of weekly poker games.

She's good at her job. Great, even. She has stared down danger and come out swinging. They don't take on just anyone at the SNC (Supernatural Creatures, naturally) division, and she's one of their top officers.

None of this explains why she's currently fussing in front of the mirror, hands shaking a bit as she tugs on the hem of her navy blue minidress. This is certainly the skimpiest outfit she's ever gone undercover in. Frowning at her reflection in the mirror, she thinks back fondly on the hiking gear she'd lounged around in on that werewolf camping trip.

Still, she can admit that she cuts quite a figure. She's tall and fit, her flat stomach and toned arms offset by her curves - curves that are currently on fine display. Her ass and hips are causing the skin-tight skirt to ride up, and her chest is just a bit too large for the low cut top of the dress. The only thing saving her breasts from making a break for it is the thinest of halter ties around the back of her neck. She's left her long black hair unbound, trailing down her bare back in a silky sheet, and even gotten a manicure. Her nails - stiletto pointed, of course - shine sparkly gold in the dim of the apartment. There is no question that when she gets to her destination, she'll turn heads - men, women, creatures of uncertain gender. Part of that thrills her a bit. It isn't often that she gets to be the center of attention.

It isn't the dress, or the make-up, or the strappy heels that are causing a slight buzzing in her fingertips, a tightening in her gut. No, it's who she's after. Very few of the criminals she and her division go after cause this strange fission of fear and excitement. Her job has a usual pattern - get in, get the info, get out. Arguably, this job is identical to the rest.

But none of the rest of the criminals had been suspected of a gory triple homicide: three fae - shot execution style, bags over their heads in a dingy warehouse. They'd been there a few days. It had been a tough crime scene to parse through, and clearly the work of organized crime. They'd been on the tail of the fae criminal underworld for years now, always to no avail. They'd bust down a door at an apartment that was supposed to be full of cash and stolen guns, only to find a little old lady and her tiny poodle blinking at them in shock. Or storm a hotel kitchen and find a bunch of confused servers and cooks instead of the drug operation they'd been promised. Not even that age-old cliche of various laundromats and garbage disposal companies has turned anything up. The fae are crafty and capable.

This murder has given them a chance though. They'd linked the ceremonial silver bullets to one other murder - a decade old cold case. That had brought them to Edmund Finn, currently serving as boss to one of the Unseelie Family crews. The only other item at the scene had been one single hair. They needed something to match it to.

They've been staking him out for months, waiting on him to toss a coffee cup, or a cigarette butt, or even just spit on the street. But the man is nothing if not fastidious and buttoned up to an alarming degree. Getting a DNA sample has proved to be nigh impossible.

At least until they found out about the escorts he had brought to one of his clubs every weekend. An almost silent operation, in through the side entrance and back out into a waiting dark car to whisk them away. They hadn't managed to question any of the girls, but they had made inroads with the madam. Turns out, she has beef with this Finn anyway. She's more than happy to help out the force and get an officer in there, as long as they turn a blind eye to her business.

So tonight, Rose is the girl of choice. Her own half-fae background will serve her well - her height and cool beauty come from that side of the family. In the dark, her smooth skin will look as fae-perfect as any full fae. She won't set off any alarm bells in a group that prefers their escorts non-human.

And here she is - standing in front of the mirror tugging on one of her hoop earing while psyching herself up to face down a murderer.

And fuck him. That really is the sticking point. No pun intended. They need his DNA, and he's expecting an escort. The hope is that both will happen tonight.

"You're going to be late," she tells her reflection, pointing at herself. She takes one last deep breath, one last nervous swallow, and spins on her heels, stalking to the door and grabbing her purse.

The warm summer night welcomes her out onto the sidewalk. A blacked out SUV idles at the curb, a bouncer-type figure shifting from foot to foot by the back door. She looks up at the sound of Rose's heels clipping across the pavement. In the flash of moonlight, her eyes glow red - a werewolf. The wolf is boyishly handsome, with her tightly cut suit and foppish ginger hair.

"You're new," the werewolf says, narrowing her eyes at Rose.

"I am," Rose says, ending it with a nervous giggle. "Finally getting some better gigs."

"This is... this gig is something," the werewolf mutters before she opens up the door. "In."

Rose does as she's told, sliding across the rich leather upholstery. The car smells new still, and although the driver - another werewolf, based on size - has the radio on, it's low, lyricless music. It's all a bit sterile.

The other werewolf gets into the passenger seat, and they're off, streaking through dark streets. The force had put her up in a quiet rental for the evening to protect her, and the streets are deserted. They skirt the edge of town, apartment buildings and houses becoming factories and warehouses. Very few cars appear. Although Rose can't see anyone, she knows that somewhere back there, an unmarked car is trailing them. It should make her feel a little bit better, but it's not like they're going to be able to charge into the club if anything goes wrong. She's on her own.

"Water?" The woman asks from the front seat. Rose looks over at her to find her holding up one of those ritzy sparkling types in a glass bottle. "Xanax? Coke?"

Well that went from zero to sixty rather quickly.

"Do I look that nervous?" Rose asks, pitching her voice up and squeezing her arms against her sides. The woman's eyes drop to her chest before snapping back up to her face with a slight blush.

"This isn't your first time, right?" The wolf asks with a delicate cough.

"God no," Rose laughs. "Just my first time with the boss."

"Gotcha," the woman says. "You're fae, right?"

"I am," Rose says.

"That's good. He likes that. And it's... helpful."

"How so?"

"Just, you know... your fae charm and all that shit."

Fae charm her ass. The cold, intense beauty of the fair folk has never been called charming, unless someone was kidding or flattering.

The pit in her stomach grows. Rose has spent plenty of nights on surveillance, watching as scantily clad, leggy beauties walk into the club with their heads held high and then shuffle out in large coats, looking dazed with shoes in hand. That had been the one worry with this op - not her being found out, or it going wrong, but her getting hurt. The guy was a sociopathic mob boss, after all. They'd asked the madam directly, but all she'd said was that Finn had a 'voracious appetite' and that Rose would be fine.

She sure fucking hopped so. The rest of the ride passes in silence, Rose gripping her clutch like her life depends on it. In reality, the lipstick and phone inside aren't going to do shit.

The club appears like a neon beacon out of the gloom of industrial buildings between one block and the next. The outside is windowless and painted the darkest of blacks, almost vanishing into the night. A strip of blinding gold neon rings the top, ending just above the door in a cursive font - The Otherworld. Rose sure hopes she won't be going to the actual Otherworld this evening. She's got many cases and years ahead of her she'd like to get to.

They drive past the front and down an alley that Rose is extremely familiar with. She wouldn't be shocked if one of her squad-mates is currently posted on the roof of the building opposite with binoculars and a camera. She takes one final moment to compose herself before her door is being opened and she slips out into a brand new world. A slim, pale demon on the door cracks it open for her, gesturing her through, and then she's shut up in the dark of a long hallway. The whole space is painted black, broken only by a heavy gold door at the far end. As if by magic - and considering this is a fae club, most likely very much by magic - the door opens, and a voice hisses down the hallway.

"Enter."

An old demon trick - compulsion. Probably from the demon outside. Rose has been trained to resist it, but even still, it throws her for a moment, and she takes one step without realizing it. She's even more nervous than she thought. Everything in her training screams at her to ignore it, but that would be suspicious - so instead she begins the long walk down the hallway, trying to look slightly spacey in that recently-compelled way she's seen plenty of times on other people.

She stops just inside the golden doorway. The door slams shut behind her. She wants to jump, but forces herself to remain planted and placid. Her heart feels like it's beating loud enough to be heard outside her body. She knows she's breathing too fast.

There are three men and two women in the room. It's richly decorated, all low, plush surfaces and glitzy light fixtures that serve more as decor than actual illumination. The dim is almost hazy, either with magic or some kind of smoke. Four of the creatures are fae - all three men, and one of the women. The last woman is a spirit - perhaps a river or a sea one. Her skin is watery-pale, her silver hair flowing around her head in some unseen current. Her eyes are shut, her mouth open in pleasure as she writhes in the lap of one of the men. The fae woman is similarly engaged with the other man. Played up moans and gasps cut through the glimmering air. Rose can already feel herself start to sway, a heat creeping into her cheeks.

Keep it together, Murray, she chides herself, even as she locks eyes with her target.

Edmund Finn is everything fae men usually are - tall and broad with incredible hair. His pale skin and blond hair are set off by piercing blue eyes. He looks like someone who would be cast as a spy or an assassin in a movie. One side of his mouth crooks up in small grin, and he raises a finger to beckon her over.

And so she goes. Her heart is drumming in her chest. Her lips are buzzing. Her fingers are numb. What is she going to find goes on in this gilded room?

"Hello lovely," he purrs, patting the cushion next to him. Rose sits down carefully, attempting not to flash anyone in her tiny dress. Not that her modesty is going to matter in very short order. "What's your name?"

"Mari," Rose says quietly, looking up at him from under her lashes. He licks his lips, and when he stares openly at her chest, he doesn't bother looking back up.

"A pretty name for a pretty thing," he murmurs. He reaches out, lifting her chin with one long finger and turning her face from side to side, inspecting her. Whatever he sees he likes, and so he leans forward all at once and starts pressing bruising kisses into her neck, working his way down, across her collarbone and to the top of her breasts.

"Oh," Rose manages to flutter out, bitting down on her first instinct to say anything along the lines of, slow down, my dude!

She brings her hands up to wrap them around his shoulders, clinging to him just so she has something to do while he drags his teeth across the exposed skin of one of her breasts. She realizes suddenly that the heat in her gut has transformed from worry to something else entirely rather quickly.

When he picks her bodily up with a growl to deposit her in his lap, her gasp is for real, as is the heat creeping up her neck and growing between her legs. He palms her ass, dragging the hem of her dress up so that it rests at her waist, her black thong on display. She can feel the hard length of him through his tailored slacks already, and despite the still-sane part of her brain yelling at her, she grinds down on him without a second though.

He laughs against her neck, squeezing her ass and making her whimper.

"Eager, aren't we?" he asks quietly.

You started it! She wants to point out. Instead -

"Yes." Breathy and high, and not an act anymore. She is thoroughly enjoying this. So what if he turns out to be rough? She can handle that. She might actually enjoy that.

"Excellent," he says, holding her down by the hips as she drags the already-damp material of her thong against the hardness that her body is now well and truly up for. He bucks up against her with a low, rough noise, and then lowers his head again.

Not shockingly, it doesn't take much to free her breasts from her dress. He takes one of her nipples in his mouth, holding it between his teeth and pulling, making her gasp and squirm as more heat pools between her legs. He lets her hip go to tug on the other nipple with his now free hand, earning a long moan. She lets her head tip back, lets her eyes close, and delights in his sharp worship of her breasts, bitting and teasing and pinching. When he pulls her dress back up over her abused nipples she moans at the sensation.

Somewhere behind her, she's vaguely aware of the slapping sounds of one of the other women being fucked, and it only turns her own more. She wants that, wants the cock she feels underneath her in her.

When he reaches to unzip his pants she gasps in hunger and moves to tug her thong aside.

"Not yet, pretty thing," he laughs. When she whines in protest - god is she going to be embarrassed about that later - he only laughs more. Instead he pushes her back towards his knees, and she realizes what he wants. She'll take it.

She drops to the floor, kneeling before him. He lets his legs fall open, slouching and wanting. Her gaze drops to his hand. Correction - to his cock, which he's got out and wrapped in that hand, languidly stroking it.

Rose has been with enough guys to know that what she's looking at is large. The fae is packing quite a bit. His hand can't reach all the way around, and it's just as surprisingly long. She's aware she's staring, mouth hanging slightly open, but what else would be the appropriate reaction to finding out that the guy she'd just been grinding on is this hung? She has no idea where he was hiding all that. It's not quite a cold shower, but it is concerning.

"Holy..." she says, trailing off. Is that even going to fit anywhere in her?

"You'll be fine," he says with a private smirk. "Fae can always take it."

Rose isn't shocked by that - there's probably some weird freaky sex magic going on in here. Her own magic is paltry at best considering her status as a half-fae, but it always rises to the occasion when around other magic. And if he's going to work some kind of trick where she can take the monster between his legs, she's game.

She leans forward, placing her hand over his, hovering above the tip of his cock. She breathes out once, almost a whistle, and his cock jumps in response. Wearing her own smirk, she licks up and across the head, holding the barest minimum of him in her mouth, using her teeth for just the tiniest scrape.

"Fuck," Finn groans above her, bucking into her mouth. She opens her eyes in surprise, his cock gagging her as he takes her mouth like it's his to do with as he pleases. Her eyes water as he holds the back of her head, and it's all she can do to hang on and relax her throat as he fucks her mouth. Weirdly enough, it's turning her on even more - with one of her hands free, she reaches down to rub at her clit through her thong, moaning on his cock when she feels how wet she is already. Something about this, about being taken so totally, is building the want and need in her core.

"Good girl," Finn groans, hand tightening on her head. He fucks her mouth languidly, her lips stretched around his rock-hard length. She presses her hands into the couch, nails digging into her palms and pussy throbbing as she flutters out muffled moans. With one final snap he stills, and Rose thinks he's about to cum. Instead, he pulls her back by the hair suddenly, leaving her mouth slick and lips red and fucked. "That's a pretty picture - come back up here."

She doesn't need to be told twice. She's up like a shot, pulling off her thong. She scampers up onto his lap again, kneeling up above him, pussy just touching the head of his cock. She has a feeling she knows how this is going to go, based on what just happened with her mouth. He holds her gaze for a moment, his mouth splitting into a razor-sharp grin, and then, taking her by the hips, shoves her down onto his cock.

She cries out - in pain, in pleasure, in a bit of both. Lifting her a bit again, he slams her down once more, and she manages to take another couple of inches with a hitched sob. He does it again, and again, until she's fully seated on his cock and she's been reduced to a mess of wanton moaning. She has never been so full, has never been so stuffed and impaled and she grinds down against him, somehow still greedy for more. The warmth in her belly is deliciously tortuous, and she swears that if she were to press a hand against her stomach she'd feel the heat and hardness of him deep inside her.

"You take that so good," he murmurs against her ear, holding her head back by her long hair. "Just you wait, there's so much more to take."

If her brain weren't sex-fried, she might have worried about that. Because it is well and truly sex-fried, all she can do is gasp and nod. She wants to take everything he can give her and more.

And then he starts fucking her in earnest and her brain goes fully on vacation. He pounds hard into her, deep into her core, deep into the heat, filling her and taking her, and she gasps and groans and sobs as her ass slaps against his thighs. The feeling of that massive cock taking her is beyond anything she's ever felt, stretched open on him and hanging on for dear life.

"Please, please, please -" is the only thing she can say, and when he chuckles, deep in his throat again, she just sobs.

She's getting close, can feel her pussy tightening around him, wants it desperately. Wants this perfect torture to lead to perfect release.

"Stroke yourself," Finn says. "Get off on my cock for me, pretty thing."

Her hand is back on her clit in a flash, and it only takes a few circles, driven on by the feeling of his massive cock thrusting in and out of her, for her to come. The release is so sweet, her breathing hitching and her body wound deliciously tight. Her orgasm rolls through her like a tsunami, and the only thing that keeps her from collapsing forward is the hand still locked in her hair. For one brief moment she revels in it, and then her world turns upside down.

Or, no - she's being lifted. She gasps in slow shock, her world orgasm-bright, as Finn stands, hands clutching at her bare ass, cock still sheathed to the hilt in her. He turns around, drops her on the couch, and then as if he hasn't just lifted all tall-fit-what have you of her, starts pounding into her again. Somehow with this angle she feels split open even further, his fist-sized balls slapping into her ass.

"Oh fuck," she sobs, squeezing him closer with her long legs around his waist. His movements are growing sharper, more erratic, deeper and more punishing. He's close - which means she's close to being done here.